Rocks of Salvation: Nest among the stars
by KeelieThompson1
Summary: Sequel to Rocks of Salvation. With John recovering, Ava surviving numerous takaways and Mycroft taking care of Moriarty, everything in Sherlock's life seems to be falling into place. But how long will it take before Moriarty gets bored? Johnlock. Read chapter warnings as dark themes are ahead.
1. Prologue

So far in this verse:

**When his hour will come**

John Watson has been trapped since the moment he left Sherlock's funeral. It just took him a while to realise it.

**Paved with Love**

Five year old Ava Watson's life is changed forever when her Daddy's old friend comes calling.

**Rocks of Salvation**

Moriarty's games and Sherlock's own arrogance have cost him the battle, but the war for Sherlock's soul plays on. Who would have thought that the shattered army doctor and the tiny girl could put up such a fight?

**Tea and Coffee**

Mycroft and Sherlock have never managed to agree on anything, let alone how to drink tea and coffee. But there are a few rare times when they can put that aside. Side along fic to "Paved with Love" from Mycoft's pov.

**The Bet**

Ava's present to John is not received well by Sherlock. Which of course means John and Ava have to bet Mycroft that they can change his mind... Silly sequel to "Paved with Love"

* * *

I do warn you that this is an angsty prologue. It's set at what will be the end of this fic and then will jump back to where Rocks of Salvation ended and then be lighter and fluffier! I just wanted to post this while people might still be looking for it so you can alert it!

* * *

"But even if you soar as high as eagles and build your nest among the stars, I will bring you crashing down"

* * *

**October 26th**

The first time he'd met John Watson, Sherlock had told him that he could be silent for days on end. He'd never understood how that could annoy someone, why his previous flatmates had found it so unerring.

But sitting in the deathly silence of the flat he understood it now. Now he could feel the weight, the oppression of it. The vast emptiness of it.

Gone. All gone.

Sherlock sat in his chair and surveyed his work between deep sips of whiskey.

The mirror had been smashed to pieces. He couldn't stand the sight he saw every time he passed by. Shards of glass littered the empty mantelpiece and scattered across the rug. The side table had been thrown against the wall and was in pieces on the floor, the wallpaper chipped and torn at the point of impact.

Everything on the desk had been shoved off, books, papers, photo's. All of it. What remained of his attempts to start work now sat soggy on the floorboards among the broken parts of the laptop he had hurled through the glass dividers.

The kitchen hadn't been spared either.

"_I'm done."_

He couldn't get the words out of his head. He couldn't tear them up and throw them away in the manner he had with everything else in the flat.

Staggering from the mixture of drugs and alcohol, he made his way up stairs. He utterly ignored _their _room, had done ever since they'd returned and he'd discovered the scent of John had faded.

Upstairs Ava's room sat silent and still, as if waiting. A doll lay on the floor and a pair of Wellyboots in the silver and purple his daughter had requested, lay mud stained and carelessly strewn by the bed.

Sinking to the floor he picked up one single boot. They'd gone round the corner and shopped for winter things and then Ava had asked for ice-cream.

They'd eaten it at the park where John always took her for her birthday and she'd tried to explain how John created a narrative for the ducks play.

It was tiny. But she'd been so proud to have gone up a shoe size.

He took another swig, wanting to dull everything. But the smell of the alcohol was quickly overpowering everything else.

It wasn't fair. Ava was his, his in everything but blood. They had no right-

_"They had every right."_

Mycroft's horrified tone echoed round and round until Sherlock's head felt as if it might burst from it all.

The look that John had given him today…he'd never seen it before in his life. He'd never dreamed he'd be the one to put that look on John's face.

He couldn't do it.

Standing he staggered out of the room, trying to stay upright as he stumbled down the stairs. He stopped at the top of the bottom flight, staring down without seeing it.

Mycroft had suggested Mrs Hudson leave. He'd heard the conversation three days ago, back when everything had seemed the worst it could get.

It always got worse.

And now, now he had nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing to lose and nothing that was within his reach to fight for.

How had he lived like this? How had he survived before John? How had he managed for five years? How had he smiled before Ava, how had he felt anything before John?

How had he managed to destroy it all?

He tipped the bottle, watching as the amber liquid splashed out, adding to the reek that was already coming from the stairs.

Then dropped the object in his other hand.

In the end he sat in his chair, pumping more of the drug into his system that made everything float away. The memory of the day that John had come home from the hospital all those months ago drifted in his head.

If he could go back…if he could change it. Save them both from the hell of his own making…

There were no magical fixes, no white knights riding to the rescue. He'd used them all up. Like Moriarty before him, he was the villain of the piece.

And the villains were never saved or forgiven.

But he could pretend, just for a moment, as the haze thickened and clouded his mind, that he was back with them both, at a time when the two people he loved more than anything in this miserable world had smiled at him and loved him back without limit.

_"I hate you_."

The fire in the landing cackled and burned.

* * *

Enjoy!


	2. Chapter 1 March 29th to 31st

**Hi!**

**I just wanted to say thank you - firstly for the amazing reaction to this fic so far an secondly because I got a review on RoS that reminded me just how fab you guys have been with sticking with these fics despite my spag being a bit iffy! This chapter is part beta'd and will be replaced when i get the full copy back, but as it had been over a week I thought I should update. **

**Just to warn you, I don't intend to update for three weeks. **It's the last three weeks of my course and I want to concentrate on giving it a last proper push. It will also give proudtobeatheatrekid a chance to catch up on the chapters - both ones coming up and the ones set in the future.

Just to make sure everyone is on the same page - the prologue is set in the future, 6/7 months after this one and will be the setting of the last chapter in this fic. There will then be one more story in this series, I will finish off the Bet and then...technically the story will be finished!

So, hope you enjoy this.

* * *

**March 29****th**

"He's an idiot."

"No, he's doing his job."

"That does not mean he isn't an idiot!" John glared at the ceiling, "Sherlock…you are not a doctor. I am. Trust me, he's not an idiot."

Sniffing, Sherlock shifted his feet, which he'd placed on John's bed, as he slumped in the chair. "You are not the best judge of character." He pointed out.

"Luckily for you."

Trying not to let his lips twitch in amusement, Sherlock stole the jelly off of John's tray. "But not for you," he smirked, before taking a deep spoonful.

Then promptly gagged. "What is that meant to be?"

John shrugged, "Hospital food."

Disgusted, Sherlock placed the dessert back on the tray. "Regardless," he said, trying to move on past the incident. "You need a new doctor."

"I'm being released the day after tomorrow," John pointed out. "I do not need a new doctor for two days."

Unconvinced, Sherlock studied the prescription in front of him.

"You never had a thing for pain killers…right?"

Slowly, Sherlock raised an unimpressed glare to John's eyes. "Yes, John, because when I feel numb and bored and want to do drugs, the obvious substance to pick is one that makes you feel more numb and disconnected."

John nodded, "That's a wonderful review of the pills I have to take for the next month." He muttered, finishing his lunch and eyeing the jelly warily. "Was it really that bad?"

"Foul," Sherlock replied absently. "Dig in."

"I was shot! You should be nicer to me."

Amused Sherlock rolled his eyes and reached into his jacket pocket. His fingers closed over the snickers bar he'd picked up and he tossed it at John who chuckled.

"Been years since I had one of these," he tore the wrapping.

"Ava chose Smarties." Sherlock folded up the prescription.

"Only you would alphabetise sweets." John took a bite and groaned. "How many hours until I escape this place?"

"Forty three." Sherlock drummed his fingers on his leg.

"Right. So tomorrow it's a Toblerone, then…" John furrowed his brow, "What sweet begins with a U?"

"I am not continuing this when you are released," Sherlock warned. "You are more than capable of going to the shops."

John stared at him and then exploded into laughter, which made him wince a little. "I swear I've stumbled into a parallel universe."

"I don't see what your problem was with the shops. They are a fascinating source of data. You can tell so much about people from what they buy, what they put back. I solved two cases just by following suspects around the supermarket."

John stared at him in horror. "You are never doing the shopping again."

* * *

The minute Sherlock stepped inside the flat, Ava flew towards him.

"Did Daddy like my picture?"

The picture that no-one had dared ask about because no-one had a clue what it was.

"Yes." Sherlock lied, thinking of the face John had pulled as he'd turned the paper around to try and see some helpful pattern.

"I called Japan on Mycroft's phone."

Sherlock picked her up, "Was it someone important?"

Thoughtfully Ava chewed a strand of hair as Sherlock carried her up the stairs. "Maybe. He spent a very long time talking to the man in Japan language."

"Japanese." Sherlock corrected absently, bristling at the reminder of Mycroft's fluency.

Ava nodded without any interest. "Yeah," she wriggled as they walked into the kitchen and Sherlock let her slide to the floor, noting how lazy Ava was getting when it came to climbing the stairs. "I made you something."

Sherlock nodded and turned to his brother who was stood on the phone to someone. "Productive day?"

"Deeply." Mycroft muttered in his direction.

Smirking Sherlock dumped the chemist bag on the chair and felt a tug at his coat.

"Here," Ava held up a huge mug of tea. "I made it!" She announced with glee.

Slowly Sherlock turned to Mycroft who shot him a nasty smile.

Ava pressed it into his hands, "My first cup of tea. Mycroft said I should practice for Daddy when he comes home." She flickered her gaze expectantly between the cup and Sherlock's face.

Steeling himself, Sherlock raised the cup to his lips.

It was lukewarm, weak, and had so much sugar in it he could taste the granules.

Ava stared at him hopefully.

"Your father doesn't like sugar."

"But it tastes better with sugar." Ava told him seriously. "Is it ok?" she asked with big worried eyes.

Sherlock nodded and Ava's entire face lit up.

"I despise you," he said to Mycroft as Ava dashed upstairs for something.

"I know."

* * *

**30th March**

Mornings were decidedly the worst part of doing this without John. The evenings were something he would miss once John returned but the mornings…

Hideous.

Ava dragged her feet on everything. Breakfast, dressing, doing her teeth…

And the hair. God the hair. John could have that back the second he returned.

They made their way to school, Ava biting into the sausage roll he'd picked up at Speedy's on their way out.

"What time are we getting Daddy tomorrow?"

"Early," Sherlock replied as they crossed the street, holding her hand tightly and tugging her slightly when she appeared to decide stopping in the middle of the road was a good idea.

"We have an assembly today," Ava announced, moving to the next topic at break neck speed. "About Easter and how well we did this term."

"Wonderful."

"They give out certificates."

Fantastic. More paper to find a place for. Ava had become remarkably adept at rooting through bins recently.

Not that he disapproved of that skill; it was just unusually frustrating to have it turned upon himself. She'd been inconsolable when she'd seen one of her pieces of "artwork" in there a few days ago.

Sherlock hadn't dared throw anything away since. Let John deal with that.

"Great."

Ava looked worried suddenly and slowed.

Staring at the sky in frustration (he would be late for his meeting with Lestrade, which was annoying when he didn't do it on purpose) Sherlock let out an irritated breath and turned.

"We will be late," he warned.

But the usual threat (the one that usually made Ava widen her eyes in horror and practically drag him along the pavement) didn't work.

"I won't get one," she confessed miserably.

"Then you should have tried harder." Sherlock snapped.

Her eyes welled up.

Glancing at his watch, Sherlock sighed and glared at a woman who threw him a filthy look as she walked by.

Crouching, he raised an enquiring eyebrow.

"I…I stayed at home when daddy was hurt 'cause we were up all night. And when I got upset about people being mean about you and daddy kissing. "

Unable to follow the logic Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. "How does this equate to you not getting a certificate?"

"What does equate mean?"

"Equal." Sherlock replied. "Add up to. Result in."

Ava looked at him as if he was stupid. "because you have to be in school all the time to get an attendance certificate. Poppy Coleman has three already." She added with a pout.

"They award attendance?" Sherlock asked baffled.

Ava nodded.

And he'd been under the impression the headteacher wasn't a complete idiot. How on earth was attendance a rewardable achievement?

"It's a stupid certificate. Don't worry."

"No it isn't." Ava glared furiously. "It's gold."

There was no point even trying to understand that one. It would just make his head ache,

"Are there no other certificates?" Sherlock asked hoping to distract her.

Ava thought for a moment. "There's one for singing."

That…seemed unlikely.

"I'm sure they will give you something." Sherlock replied.

* * *

Something turned out to be a small white rabbit that sniffed at him suspiciously.

The feeling was entirely mutual.

"No," Sherlock said, looking back down at his microscope.

"Because?" Ava asked plaintively and he could practically hear the head tilt.

Pets were not acceptable; he'd be the one expected to feed it and then he'd be the one blamed when the idiotic thing ended up dead.

At least small children adequately reminded one when they need to be fed and watered.

Thankfully there was a more acceptable reason as well.

"Your father is coming home tomorrow and..." he glanced up for a second and stared at the twitching rabbit that looked frankly terrified, "rodents are not facilitators to healing."

Ava seemed to deflate momentarily, and then looked at him eagerly. "Can I have ice-cream instead?"

"No." There wasn't any and he was in the middle of something.

"Can I have the rabbit then?"

Barely restraining a sigh Sherlock continued on with what he was doing. She was spending far too much time with him. In fact, he was starting to develop a vague grudging respect for his mother.

The thought was worrying.

Slowly and with an attempt at calm, Sherlock put his hand on the table and straightened up to look at her with a deep breath, "It is not either or," he said firmly. "There will no rabbit and no ice-cream." He explained clearly.

There. Done with.

"But can I have the rabbit?" Ava's voice drifted over to him again, seemingly unconcerned by what he'd just said.

"No." What was wrong with the child? She usually understood concepts.

"Then can I have the ice-cream?"

This was not amusing. Turning to glare at her, Sherlock tried to use his sternest, "Johnlike" voice.

"No."

"Then can I have the rabbit?"

"N..." Wait.

Mycroft and Lestrade had collected her from school after having their meeting. And, while he sincerely doubted Mycroft was actually immature enough to do something like this in retaliation he couldn't rule it out. "Which one was it?"

Ava's face twitched and her eyes flickered in the direction of the stairs. "Rabbit or the ice-cream?" she offered stubbornly.

It wouldn't be hard to open the door and see who was listening behind, but it would be fascinating to see if he could work out who had decided to use Ava against him. Abandoning the experiment he strode towards her, stopping exactly three of his steps away. "Lestrade or Mycroft?"

Ava narrowed her eyes, and raised her chin. "I don't know what you're talking about." She replied in a very snooty and dramatic way that she clearly thought was convincing.

Torn between amusement at her clear delight at the ploy and utter jealousy that someone had dared to usurp his usual role, Sherlock bent over until he was eye-level with Ava and searched her eyes.

Ava beamed at him sweetly.

Mycroft.

Annoyed he roared for his brother and stepped back, allowing his brother to stroll into the room.

"Well done," Mycroft said swinging his umbrella as he walked in. "Here." he added, handing over a pound coin to Ava who eagerly accepted it.

The jealousy fled. He never had to pay Ava, and at least she was smarter than John was at making a profit from his brother's interfering ways.

Then she smiled up at Mycroft who, seemingly surprised, flashed a rather rare smile back at her and the jealousy soared again.

"Traitor," Sherlock muttered watching as Ava made her way over to the sofa with a rather terrified looking rabbit.

"I need to find amusement somewhere," Mycroft said in a deceptively mild tone and looking rather confused with himself. "Setting up more protection is tedious."

The Watson DNA struck again apparently, but they were his. Not Mycroft's.

"It appears I'm not the only "pandering" to her." Sherlock sneered glaring back down his microscope, barely seeing the cells.

"If it makes you feel better to believe that, then do," Mycroft replied, closer to Sherlock. "Have you given any more thought to allowing a security camera in here?" he asked in a much lower tone that Ava wouldn't pick up.

"The hallway watching the stairs and the kitchen" Sherlock replied.

"The landing upstairs as well?"

"If you wish to waste the money," Sherlock muttered. "They'd have to be supremely gifted and stupid to use the hallway, avoid the first set of cameras only to be found by the second."

"I'm merely trying to indulge your new found protective side," Mycroft mocked, "Are you sure you don't want the added precaution for the precious child."

"I do not require your help if you will be impertinent about it." Sherlock hissed.

"Can I have a sister?" Ava cheeped from nowhere as she sat with the rabbit on the sofa.

What?

Panicked Sherlock turned to look at her and knocked a beaker over in the process.

Ava was looking at him in a rather frank manner as if waiting for an actual response.

What the hell was he meant to say to that? Was it appropriate to remind her that babies did not grow in trees or, thankfully, in men! Or point out that no adoption agency in a million miles would give him and John a child.

Though they could steal one he supposed. But if they did that then it would probably be to indulge John's vague desire for a boy as well…

God almighty what was he thinking?

Horrified at his own train of thought, Sherlock looked at Mycroft, beseechingly for the first time since he was nine.

He could barely function with one child. He did not require more.

"You don't need my help," Mycroft replied pettily with one of his patented fake smiles.

"N…no" Sherlock replied, hating how unsteady his voice sounded.

Ava huffed in disappointment, but with no more emotion than she showed when he refused her a sweet.

Thankfully.

Then she turned, as if struck with something; a devilish, cheeky grin on her face.

"Can I have the bunny then?"

Picking up the beaker carefully Sherlock glared at Mycroft, "I despise you," he muttered putting things down onto the table with more force than was needed.

Surprisingly Mycroft merely flashed another rare genuine smile.

"Shut up," Sherlock said, giving up on the experiment and turning with a huff. "When will you install them?"

"What's install mean?" Ava asked.

"It means go and ask Mrs Hudson if you can install the rabbit in her oven." Sherlock replied.

Ava tilted her head curiously at that and then skipped off. Moments later he could hear her thudding down the stairs and calling for Mrs Hudson.

"Children can be rather literal." Mycroft pointed out silkily.

Gathering up the equipment Sherlock tossed it all in the sink. "Are you claiming to be an expert of child rearing now?"

"No. I will leave that to you."

"Anything else?" Sherlock bit out, annoyed.

"No," Mycroft said, after a moment's pause.

* * *

Since John had been shot Sherlock had been forced to deal with many things. Mycroft's staff asking ridiculous questions that even John would scoff at; Mycroft suddenly deciding that his presence was required in the flat every other day; solving mundane crimes from the comfort of his living room and the irritating need to roughly be home at 3.30 every week day.

It seemed slowly but surely the privacy that he had once so deeply clung to was being utterly stripped away.

Ava had gone to bed early after attempting to watch a soap opera and asking questions about the Easter bunny.

It had taken Sherlock a moment to realise, as he frantically googled to find some wisdom on how to deal with five year olds asking questions about a fake rabbit that delivered chocolate, that John would be back and in charge of Ava tomorrow.

He assumed it was relief he felt.

"Must this take so long?" Sherlock muttered as he checked the weather reports in Croydon where a body had been found.

"This is state of the art equipment," Mycroft replied with a sigh. "Ignore him." He added to the installation crew.

"Why are you always here?" Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Because you cannot be trusted to play nicely with others."

Sulking Sherlock switched on the television and turned it up as loud as he dared cringing inwardly as a romantic comedy started blaring out.

The only joy he took from it was that Mycroft looked even more pained than Sherlock felt.

* * *

"Here," Mycroft inclined his head as he headed towards the bedroom.

Glaring in fury at the television, Sherlock stood and followed his brother, resisting the urge to snap at Mycroft and tell him to get out of Sherlock's room.

They had built a cabinet on one of his walls with a thin television inside that showed a live feed on the kitchen and hallway.

"The instructions," Mycroft handed the leaflet to him but Sherlock ignored it so Mycroft placed it on the bed.

"You understand why this is necessary-"

"Yes" Sherlock snapped staring ahead at the television screen.

"There are motion detectors" Mycroft added, "You can turn them on and off as you wish." He handed Sherlock back his phone.

Sherlock ignored that too, but instead of tossing it on the bed, Mycroft continued to hold it out to Sherlock.

"Did you ever look at the message John received on this?"

No, it had hardly been a point of priority…

It should have been. Stupid, stupid!

Sherlock took the phone and scrolled down.

M_ and M left. Mn hid gun from Mty._

Sherlock stared at it for a long time.

"That wasn't the code." He said hoarsely. "We used SM and JM"

"It's unclear as to whether Moriarty knew what Moran planned to do or not." Mycroft replied evenly. "But Moran wasn't alone."

Sherlock's hands clenched around the phone, knuckles turning white.

"This is necessary," Mycroft said again firmly.

"I know." Sherlock hissed

"As long as you do."

"Do you think I would allow all this if it wasn't?" Sherlock snapped. "Do you think I would allow you in here constantly?"

Mycroft's jaw clenched fractionally tighter. "Indulge your tantrum if you must," he replied loftily. "I have things to do."

He walked out without another word and Sherlock glanced down at the instructions on the bed.

John could read them, he decided as he closed the cabinet, restraining the urge to slam the doors.

* * *

That night he didn't sleep. It was impossible to do so.

He should have asked John to forward the text, should have known that his network were better than such stupid mistake. They were used to using a range of different numbers and never before had a message gone astray.

John should have been with him; there should have been no opportunity for Moriarty to seize that opening.

There never would be again.

* * *

**31****st**** March**

It was a relief to see John in normal clothes again. It felt like an age since he'd seen John in something other than hospital gowns and tracksuits designed for ease at physiotherapy.

He had a jumper on.

Ava, heeding his warnings, was very gentle with John. He could see it in the careful way she studied him and picked his good side to hug and tug on when she wanted to talk to John.

He'd sneak her some chocolate later.

It was hard not to fuss, but one look from John warned against it. Sherlock remained at a discrete distance, even when John tipped and swayed a little as they got out into the fresh air. He was ready to dart forward though, should it get to that stage.

But it didn't. John even managed bending into the taxi, though he paled a little as he settled.

He'd lost weight. Too much weight and looked older than Sherlock had ever seen him.

He hated it.

The London streets crawled past as the taxi moved through the traffic. Was it ordinary to be returning from hospital like this? He could spot five as they drove past streets, though none were gunshot victims.

Victim. That was not a word he associated with John. Ever. John was the furthest thing from a victim that Sherlock could imagine. But he was a target. A walking, breathing precious target that Moriarty had managed to-

It was annoying how much the text message was bothering him. It was done now, John was alive and recovering; to dwell on it was foolish, not least because it was no longer his problem.

Moriarty should be pleased with his new opponent. Mycroft was everything that Sherlock was not at the moment.

"Are you still sad?"

Startled out of his thoughts Sherlock turned to Ava and then raised his gaze to John's.

"Thinking," he said.

"Sad thoughts?" Ava asked suspiciously and Sherlock saw the hint of a smile pull at John's lips. "Because Daddy's all better now,"

John brushed a hand over Ava's back. "Sometime people just like to have a think about things." He explained to Ava, his eyes soft as he continued to look at Sherlock.

Ava scrunched up her nose, "I never think like that."

John snorted. "I know." He said teasingly, which went right over Ava's head. The five year old glanced between them before she seemed to dismiss the entire conversation as boring adult talk and launched into a description of her final assembly before the Easter holidays.

"Ok?" John mouthed as Ava babbled on.

Sherlock nodded once and went back to staring out the window.

* * *

Something relaxed at the sight of John back in the flat, even just inside the front door.

Home.

Ava dashed into Mrs Hudson's flat, without bothering to knock or wait, calling for the woman as eagerly as she could manage.

John hesitated at the sight of the stairs.

"I'd forgotten how many there are." He sighed. "I'm never getting back down them."

Rolling his eyes at the dramatic nature of the statement, Sherlock herded him to the stairs, staying close behind. It would have been easier had they been the same height and he could have put John's arm around his shoulders but their height difference would pull far too much on John's wound, good side or no.

"Sherlock-"

"I'm behind you." He said, quietly, pressing a kiss to the nape of John's neck.

John's shoulders squared and the military stance straightened his back in a way that was clearly unconscious.

It was painfully slow and Sherlock stared at the way John's hand gripped the banister, reading his effort in every pant.

As they got to the kitchen Ava bounded in behind them.

"You're really old if it takes that long to climb the stairs," she announced with a haughty air.

John pulled a face but said nothing.

Sherlock helped John to the chair, kneeling in front of him as John started to get comfortable. Behind him, Sherlock could see Ava hesitate, looking uncomfortable. Then she turned and flicked the switch on the kettle.

Hearing the noise, John raised an eyebrow.

"I knew having a child would be useful," he muttered.

* * *

It took precisely an hour and fourteen minutes for the novelty of having John back to wear off. The flat felt too small, too claustrophobic for the three of them to comfortably stay.

Within twenty minutes of Sherlock realising that, John had thrown him out and was sitting at the table with Ava, working on her spellings.

Still, he hesitated at the door, drinking in the sight of the pair of them, just sitting, continuing with their ordinary lives.

As he walked out the door he texted Mycroft.

_I want the camera feed on my phone. SH_

_See my PA tonight. MH_

* * *

"John-"

Sherlock cut himself off as he entered the room.

There, lying on the sofa were John and Ava, huddled up under the spare blanket with the blue TV screen denoting the DVD they'd been watching had long since timed out.

John was being an idiot. He wasn't meant to be cuddling up to Ava on the sofa or risking his side even being on the sofa in that position.

Sherlock pulled a chair over and crouched on it, examining the two people in front of him.

It was illogical. It was normal and mundane and everything that he despised. A father and daughter, asleep on the sofa after watching a film.

Ordinary.

How could so much of him be wrapped up in them? Why did his breath slow to match theirs just to check they were getting enough air? Why on earth was he sitting, staring at them when he had things to do? When he needed to wake them both up because sleeping on the sofa wasn't good for either of them,

What was it about the calm faces in front of him that made his stomach squeeze?

A sleepy blue eye cracked open and Ava stared at Sherlock for a moment, clearly half asleep, before she tried to snuggle closer into John, who winced in his sleep.

He needed to move them.

He moved, standing then bending to pick Ava out of John's arms. She responded instantly, soft arms linking around his neck and body leaning into his with utter ease.

For a moment he paused, breathing John in, revealing in the closeness to the pair of them.

He'd never get enough of this. Of the perfectly normal sensation of holding them close.

Doomed, he stood, Ava still in his arms and stirring just enough to make herself comfortable and put her to bed.

* * *

Back at John's side he crouched, studying the man in front of him. It was ludicrous to hesitate to wake him; the man was an idiot for even lying on the sofa.

"John."

John stirred slowly, blinking in thick drowsy confusion up at Sherlock. "'llo" he said.

"You should be in bed."

John nodded, as if Sherlock had imparted deep wisdom. "No TV in there," he muttered into the cushion.

"You have a lap top," Sherlock muttered, sitting back.

John opened his eyes and stared up at him thoughtfully, "Oh…didn't think of that."

"Philistine," Sherlock sighed.

John flashed a smile. "Where's Ava?"

"I put her to bed."

John's smile grew and deepened.

"Shut up."

The smile stayed.

* * *

Sherlock couldn't sleep.

He's struggled with sleep since John had been shot; even when he'd actually wanted to sleep it had rarely come. Now, the idea of sleeping while John lay in the bed with him was terrifying.

He didn't want to examine why.

So he sat, watching John.

Who woke with a gasp at five past four in the morning.

"What is it?"

John curled in on himself, looking pale. "Hurts," he muttered.

"What do you need?" Sherlock asked, leaning close. He looked over to the bedside table where the pills lay and started to reach over John for them.

"No," John shook his head, "Muscle spasm. It's fine; it'll fade."

Sherlock glanced at the laptop he'd put to one side earlier. "How do you make it fade quicker?"

John huffed out a laugh that was between a groan and a chuckle. "I need to relax,"

Sherlock watched him as John closed his eyes and started to take deep, rhythmic breaths, his hands clenching and unclenching in five second gaps.

Unsure, he slid down next to John and buried his lips in the slightly damp hair. He dug his fingers into John's good shoulder, circling with his finger pads.

Johns breathing started to become less forced.

"Can I see?"

There was a moment when Sherlock thought John would refuse, but then there was a sharp nod.

"You can see the dressing," he said, "I'm not awake enough to show you how to redo it."

Sherlock shifted down the bed and gently pushed up John's t-shirt. There, on John's right side, was a neat square of cloth, taped and surrounded by bruising that still hadn't faded.

It hid the wound he'd received in December.

Carefully, he touched his lips as close as he dared to the wound.

Above him John sighed and touched a hand to Sherlock's hair. His fingers twisted around the strands gently.

"Moriarty sent the text."

The words surprised him. He'd never meant to tell John that; he never, ever wanted to discuss that day again.

Yet the words had still, somehow, tripped out.

"I know." John said eventually.

Surprised Sherlock raised his head. "What?"

"Moran said that Moriarty had set it up." John still ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair gently. "He also said that it was meant to be another warning."

Sherlock looked back down at the dressing and skimmed a touch around the edges. "Moriarty knew what Moran would do."

"Yeah," John croaked out, "Yeah. I guess if I could figure Moran's motives out…"

"I never…if you'd have died I'd never have looked. He'd have gotten away with it-"

John shifted, "Don't," he warned. "Don't torture yourself."

Sherlock let his finger trace a thin scar on John's ribs. "I hate you for making me feel like this," he announced suddenly.

"Thank God." John muttered, "I was getting worried you'd been abducted and replaced with a doppelganger." He teased.

Sherlock smiled against his skin. "It's debilitating," he complained.

"If it helps, I think you're doing very well with it."

"You're biased."

"True." John's hand was slowing and Sherlock shifted back up letting John's hand rest as tiredness started to set back in.

"Go to sleep," he said quietly, pulling back to watch John again.

"You watching?" John slurred sleepily.

"Yes."

"Mmm. My nutter."

Sherlock waited until John's eyes closed.

"Mine," he whispered back.

* * *

To be nice, and because there won't be an update for a while I can tell you:

Chapter Two: When Sherlock gets a case in Eastbourne John has a strange reaction, which of course means Sherlock has to come up with a plan to convince John to go to Eastbourne

Chapter Three: Sherlock digs deeper into what John is hiding which sparks off his own memories of the five years spent apart.

I would also point out that reading "When his hour will come" may give you some hints about what's going to come, especially if you think about what John and Sherlock haven't discussed.


	3. Chaptre 2: April 2nd to 3rd

**I got a good with outstanding features!**

**Screw the three weeks - I feel like spreading the joy :)**

**Unbetad so...yeah apologies for that!**

* * *

**2****nd**** April**

Finally! An interesting case.

A Mr Tinch had been discovered, washed up on the shore at Eastbourne. All of his identification had been missing but a letter from his seven year old daughter that had been shoved in his back pocket and had almost dissolved. Thankfully there had been a competent forensic team (why was it Eastbourne had better people than Anderson?) who had been able to salvage the letter contents.

All evidence pointed towards the wife and her parents had phoned (who phoned in this day and age?) and requested his presence.

Unfortunately it appeared that no police department could have both a half way competent lead investigator coupled with an almost competent forensic team. The idiot in charge seemed to find nothing wrong with the fact that the wife had been exhibiting symptoms that, coupled with the doctor's reports of Mr Tinch from the last month, indicated heavy metal poisoning.

Unless she was really that dedicated and then stupidly decided to erase all her efforts.

Though people could actually be that idiotic.

"Eastbourne?" John asked staring at the laptop screen that had been dumped with some care on his lap.

"Yes. Fresh air." Sherlock explained.

John glared with narrowed eyes, "You do know that modern medicine has advanced past "go to the seaside and take a deep breath.""

"It's not to cure you, it's for a case." Sherlock restrained the urge to snap. As if he didn't know that; did John think he deleted all the basic components of primary science?

"Ah," John smiled at the ceiling bitterly, "How foolish of me."

"John-"

"And fantastic timing given all the security _you_ just had set up here."

"Moriarty will not follow me to Eastbourne." Sherlock huffed. "It's Eastbourne."

"Infallible logic there," John mocked picking the laptop off his lap and putting it onto the side table, picking up a cup of tea instead.

Sherlock leaned forward, studying John as he sipped from his cup. John froze and stared at him over the rim.

He hadn't been defensive until Sherlock had mentioned the destination. It had never been an issue before Sherlock left which meant it had been while Sherlock had been away. John hadn't been able to afford a holiday after Harry had been imprisoned.

"You and Harry took Ava to Eastbourne?"

John put the cup down carefully and nodded.

It would have fooled anyone else, mostly because it was true.

But it wasn't John's only issue. His shoulders dropped fractionally in relief and his fingers adjusted around the arm of the chair, easing slightly. There was also a tiny tug at his mouth that, were Sherlock not there, might have developed into a triumphant twitch.

John thought he'd fooled him.

Idiot.

* * *

Sherlock left it alone, letting John think he had gotten away with the misdirection. Instead, he left John to rest in front of the television and went downstairs to Mrs Hudson's where Ava was being entertained to give John an hour of peace.

"Do you want to go for a walk?"

Ava stared up at him from where she'd been playing with the rabbit and her eyes slid between Sherlock and the rabbit indecisively.

Sherlock stared down at her stunned.

A rabbit was vying for his attention? Worse, the rabbit looked like it was winning.

What was happening?

"Can we take the bunny?" Ava asked hopefully.

"No," Sherlock said, taken aback.

Ava looked around, as if weighing up her options.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "You can however have an ice cream."

"Ok."

Mrs Hudson smiled at him, lips pressed together as she clearly tried not to laugh.

* * *

"When was the last time you went on a trip?"

Ava licked at her ice cream as they sat on the bench. "We went to the hospital" she reminded him.

God almighty.

"Away. Before I came back."

Ava turned to look up at him, her hair whipping from the wind and eyes squinting up against the breeze and the brightness of the day. "We never went away before you came back." She seemed to weigh it up. "We never did anything. We were poor." She told him frankly. "And Daddy was sad."

Sherlock studied her. "What's your earliest memory?" he asked her, needing to know how long ago John's trip with Harry may have been.

Ava looked up at the sky munching on the cone, her little nose furrowed. "A grey room," she answered. "Auntie Harry crying and Daddy looking mad."

That was unhelpful; Ava's memory only stretched to when Harry had been on trial or imprisoned.

"I didn't like it," Ava said quietly.

Instantly his attention snapped back to her worried expression. Reaching out he stroked a hair out of her face. "Don't think about it then. It was a long time ago."

"But you told me to," Ava argued.

Smiling he broke off a little of her cone and dipped it in the ice cream. "Now I'm telling you not to."

"You're strange."

Sherlock nodded as he popped the cone piece into his mouth and stared across the street at the woman who was pulling at her stepson, wildly out of her depth and trying to impress her mother-in-law.

"Where did you go?"

Long nails, manicured and digging into the boy's arm. The woman was trying to look natural and polished but instead was coming across cruel and vain. The mother-in-law would never approve.

"Traveling," he said after a moment, not looking at her as he lied.

"Daddy was really sad while you were away. You shouldn't go travelling again." Ava scolded. "He cried once."

"Did he?" Sherlock asked as the mother-in-law stood back and watched the developing scene, even at the expense of her grandson.

"Just before you came back." Ava sounded as if she was crunching through just the cone now.

"Mmm-" Sherlock stopped and turned back to her. "How long before I returned?"

Ava shrugged. "Around half term."

Sherlock would need to look that up. It was surprising how often she and John used a school's timetable to mark the passage of time.

It had been strangely unlike him to not pry into what John had done with Moriarty. Sherlock was aware that they had talked, aware that Moriarty had forced him to leave Ava alone, but they had never really discussed what had happened on those nights.

He'd left it alone, partly out of reluctance to push John away, and partly because he had arrogantly assumed that Moriarty wouldn't have dared done anything more than tap at John to get Sherlock's attention.

There was a chance it was Sherlock's betrayal that had set John off. But, according to the captured images Mycroft had shown him when Sherlock had first returned, John had discovered Sherlock was alive on October 1st.

It all depended on when half term was.

* * *

"What do you know of John's interaction with Moriarty?"

Mycroft let out a long sigh, "That lasted long," he murmured under his breath.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock started to pace. "I do not want Moriarty back; I want to know what happened to John."

"You have the man in your flat." Mycroft didn't stop reading his document, "In fact you probably have the man on your phone. Go away."

"I want the screen caps." Sherlock demanded.

"You do not need-"

Sherlock stopped in front of his brother and yanked the paper out of his hands, hopefully creating paper cuts as he did so. "Do you know why John might be reluctant to go to Eastbourne?"

"I have better things to do with my days than-"

"Argue with me?" Sherlock enquired, falsely polite, "Yes, quite. Where are the screen caps?"

Mycroft stared up at him and then shook his head, "Ask one of my assistants."

"You are not passing me off-"

"No, and flattering as it is that you think I know everything, I do not have a comprehensive filing index burned into my brain." Mycroft held out his hand imperiously for the document that Sherlock was holding hostage.

There were two paper cuts.

"Of course," Sherlock said pleasantly, handing the paper back with a flourish. "Perhaps I'll simply go to your assistants from now on. They certainly seem to know more than you do."

"If only," Mycroft muttered, waving him away as he started to read the document again.

* * *

Four screen caps in total. Sherlock sat in the empty room of 221c, on the floor, studying them.

He'd also poked around for John's bill statements for the past five years, his emails and his photo album.

Two separate mysteries. It wouldn't have been much of a coincidence except for the fact that John was equally tight lipped about them both. No, that wasn't true, John was evasive about both.

John, Ava and Harry had gone to Eastbourne for Harry's birthday, the September after John and Harry had started living together. They would have been living in the same house for only a few weeks then; it looked as if the holiday had been a break away before John had started at the new surgery. Their living situation would have been new enough that Ava had probably still called him Uncle John and Harry may have been Mummy.

When had that switched over? When had Ava started calling John Daddy? Had it ever switched over? John had said that Harry's grand plan involved everyone thinking Ava was John's and then she and Clara adopting Ava back as their own. Exactly how had it worked? All John had said on the matter was that when Harry and Clara divorced the second time, he'd gone to live with Harry and Ava.

How had anyone believed John would fail at looking after his own child? Had that been why John had cut himself off from so many people?

If Harry Watson weren't dead already, he'd be hunting her down now. The only good thing that woman had ever contributed towards society was Ava.

So it was likely a raw time in John's memory. Forced once again to make sacrifices and put up with a sister he wasn't wholly fond of for Ava's sake. Pictures of the three of them showed how strained things were; John appeared pale and tired, while Harry had the tell-tale signs of bloodshot eyes and ruddy cheeks from blown capillaries that denoted heavy drinking. Even though the holiday had only been ten days he could see the weight she'd gained from the drink just in that short period of time.

The more John helped, the worse Harry's drinking seemed to have become.

But Ava…even in ten days he could read the way she regarded John. She was already leaning more towards him than Harry in any group photographs and there were barely any of just her and Harry. She was never seen without the bear that looked brand new.

There would be mixed emotions on John's part, not least because at least Harry's imprisonment and death had taken the choice out of John's hands; he had never had to fight his sister for Ava and deal with the consequences of that.

Knowing John though, the doctor likely felt guilty that he had once intended to fight for Ava. Likely questioned himself about how to explain the situation to Ava one day and debated between forgetting Harry entirely or trying to preserve her memory.

But that wasn't it. John was reluctant to talk about it, but he never denied it. He never hid his confusion over the situation.

What was his issue with Eastbourne then? What was he hiding?

* * *

**April 3rd**

Acting as if he was nervous was hard. Mainly because he rarely got nervous, especially over something as mundane as train tickets and a week's booking at a pub. Sherlock had never understood why people got so worked up about such things.

But then he was using Mycroft's money so perhaps it was the part refund that people felt nervous about.

John wasn't a genius but he was smart when it involved Sherlock's moods. Therefore acting nervous wouldn't work. He needed to act in a way the conveyed to John he was nervous.

Brisk. Sherlock needed to be brisk, rushing through motives and reasoning's at break neck speed as if he were worried of giving John a chance to say no; which was annoying because it meant he'd have less chance to observe.

Still, to resolve this mystery and the murder of Mr Tinch, he needed to actually get John to Eastbourne. The rest could follow later.

"Here," he thrust the envelope at John and stood on his chair to reach the book piled on the very top of the book shelf which had detailed pictures of the effects different poison had on human anatomy. It was buried under a stack of books, all relegated to the top shelf, far out of Ava's reach.

And John's; after all the man was annoyingly adept at ruining Sherlock's organised piles.

He started to move the piles, listening to John's fingers opening the envelope and flicking through the tickets and the confirmation email.

And the sucked in breath that wavered slightly.

Shocked, angry, scared.

The last was unexpected. What was more unexpected that rather than just heightening Sherlock's curiosity in this fascinating puzzle , it made his fingers clench around a book he was moving.

No-one was allowed to scare John. And John wasn't allowed to hide these sorts of things from Sherlock.

Gently.

"What are these?" John demanded.

"Train tickets and the B and B," Sherlock replied quickly, keeping his voice utterly neutral. "The parents are asking for my help and are offering a great deal of money for my service. I made sure to get a slightly later train; we should have time to have some food at the station; you know my feelings on Southern Service's attempts at food." Sherlock final freed the book, "I researched the place we're staying at," he added as he heard John suck in a breath, "A park nearby for Ava, regular transport to the beach and shops so there will be no strain on your injuries. I have hired a car but I doubt you'd want to be reliant on me all day as you are still not recovered enough to feel comfortable behind the wheel while Ava is in the car."

John let out the breath he had taken, releasing it in a soft sigh.

"And the B & B is run by a gay couple, we seem to have an uncanny ability to find them, but it will ensure Ava doesn't have to suffer any comments. They have a suite of rooms; it's a rather big place-"

"Sherlock," John cut across him. "Why do Ava and I need to go with you?" he asked carefully.

Sherlock smiled at the book. John was already so much more receptive today than he had been yesterday.

He wiped the smile off of his face as he stepped down and avoided looking at John. "Logic," he replied, opening his lap top to compare the photos.

"I don't-"

"Leaving you here would be asking for trouble." Sherlock replied, still looking at the book, hating it because he wanted to see the expression on John's face.

It sounded as if John was going to say something but then changed his mind.

"And-" No. Mistake. He couldn't push the sentimental reasons too far. Shutting the book and putting it on the table, he looked at John.

John who looked suddenly suspicious.

"I'm sure Ava would enjoy it," Sherlock added. It was probably a good idea to stick to the truth as much as possible now.

If John continued to be this in-tune with Sherlock it would be…well both brilliant and frustrating.

"Enjoy what?"

Sherlock had never been more relieved for a distraction when talking to John. Especially as John was now drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair, as if trying to decide what to believe.

His clever, clever John.

"She has homework-" John begun, eyes searching Sherlock's.

"Finished it," Ava said quickly, even though she had no idea what it was Sherlock was trying to achieve. John glanced at her briefly and then flickered over to Sherlock again, as if now trying to work out whether this had been a set up.

The fact that it hadn't been made it even better. And Ava was a terrible actress.

John's furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and looked away, into the fireplace, clearly trying to decide what to do.

There was the worry again, the fear.

How had he not dug into this earlier? What could be so bad that John was trying to keep hidden?

Feeling eyes on him, Sherlock turned and met Ava's curious gaze. "Is that your homework?" he asked, filing away the questions for later, but taking one last observational sweep of John and committing it all to memory so he could pour over it later when he had time.

Ava nodded solemnly, glancing at John and then at his wound as she passed him the homework without protest.

It was a weather chart.

Sherlock stared down at it, his earlier concerns flying away.

"A weather chart?" he asked. "What possible use is it for you to record a weather chart?"

"So people will know whether it rained?" Ava replied.

"That's what the internet is for. Besides everyone you know lives within the city. What possible use is it for you all to agree that it rained?"

Ava was looking at the violin. Perhaps playing to John earlier to get him to relax, compiled with his sudden "nerves" had been a bit too much. Maybe that was why John looked so indecisive.

"Because I want a sticker," Ava answered honestly. "Mrs Parker said she'd give us a sticker if we made it look really nice."

"Now the woman's bribing the children," Sherlock sneered looking over at John, hoping to distract him with Ava.

John was still staring at the fireplace, his mind lost on something else entirely.

What had happened? The question scared him so deeply that Sherlock felt the urge to kneel next to him and beg John to explain.

Not here, not now. And it wouldn't work.

"You've misspelt some words," he said, handing the paper back to Ava idly as he stared at John. "Use the dictionary to rectify the mistakes."

"Rectify?" Ava asked, peering at the paper.

"Fix," Sherlock said absently, before looking at her again as her nose scrunched.

"But it's not English work," Ava complained. "We don't do spellings in Geography."

Unimpressed Sherlock raised an eye. It appeared he had copied John's unimpressed look perfectly when Ava just sighed and obeyed; running off upstairs to edit.

"John?"

"Yeah?" John startled at the sound of his name and glanced over questioningly.

"Eastbourne?"

John shrugged, "I…"

"Mr Tinch's widow's freedom depends on us."

John suddenly seemed to snap back again, "Mr Tinch?"

"The dead body I told you about. The one I think was poisoned. The mystery John. Do pay attention."

"Oh." John nodded, "Yeah, fine." He flashed a weak smile at Sherlock and reached for his tea again.

Sherlock reached for his book again, watching as John unmuted the tv.

"I didn't tell you the body had been identified?"

John nodded, "You did." He assured Sherlock without guile.

Staring blindly at the page of his book Sherlock's mind raced back to what he had told John after the phone call.

"_I hate parents, they'll never listen to a bad word about their daughter." _

"_Don't take the case then."_

And later, after reviewing the notes.

"_A dead body, poisoned, found in Eastbourne. They've identified the victim but aren't releasing the name to the police. It has the potential to actually be interesting!"_

John had thought it was a woman's body that had been found. And he'd never mentioned to John how long the body had been in the water.

Which begged a worrying question.

Whose body had John thought it was?

* * *

Still dancing :)


	4. Chapter 3: April 5th to 7th

**FINISHED UNI!**

**Here's a chapter to celebrate! Oh and I will start replying to reviews again - they have been lovely these past few weeks at keeping my spirits up :)**

* * *

**April 5****th**

Ava's excitement was so infectious that it seemed to make John temporarily snap out of the quiet, contemplative mood he'd been in for the past few days.

"Can I put the ticket through the machine?" Ava asked hopefully as she dragged her little suitcase behind her.

"Go on then," John said, brushing a hand through her hair.

Sherlock let loose a hiss of irritation which had John discreetly flip the finger at him as he showed Ava how to put the ticket into the barriers. Behind them a suited man huffed in annoyance and stormed into a barrier next to them.

"There you go." John smiled as the barrier opened up and Ava ducked through. It closed as John started to put his ticket through.

Ava didn't stop.

John's face drained of colour instantly, and Sherlock snarled, twisting to nip in front of someone else and through the barrier on their card.

"Hey-"

John wasn't quick enough with his injury but Sherlock was. He darted through and scooped her up quickly, bag and all.

"We'll miss the train," Ava complained.

"Do not do that again," Sherlock growled and her eyes widened in shock. "Do you hear me? You do not walk off ahead of us."

Behind him John caught up. "Bag," he reminded Sherlock with a tilt of his head.

Sherlock glanced over at the ticket staff, who were staring at him with pursed lips and folded arms that denoted attitude. And the woman who was glaring at him, waving her Oyster card, holding their bags hostage.

And then at Ava who was staring wide-eyed at him, as if just realising the magnitude of what might have happened.

And lastly back at John.

John reached out and gently squeezed his spare hand then inclined his head at their bags again.

Nodding, Sherlock let Ava down and strode back for their bags.

* * *

The fact that Ava wanted to sit by the window worked well for Sherlock; it allowed him and John to surround her without seeming like they were. The little girl seemed perfectly content to look out of the window with her nose pressed against the glass.

"You okay?"

Sherlock nodded, steepling his hands to his chin.

"Sure?"

"Fine," Sherlock said dismissively. "Foolish overreaction."

John glanced to the side at Ava and then back to Sherlock. "No," he soothed and reached out to tug Sherlock's hands down, brushing his thumb over the back of Sherlock's hands. "Not an overreaction."

Sherlock let his hand twist around John's. "How's your side?"

John nodded once, squeezed his hand and pulled back. "So, tell me about the case."

In the middle of Sherlock's theory, Ava shrieked.

"God almighty, the noise," he muttered to John, who shot him a grin and leaned over to look at what Ava was pointing to, almost cheek to cheek with Ava.

It was good to see John moving with ease.

"It's the real life sea!" Ava bit her lip with excitement. "Can we go and see it today?"

The real life sea? Sherlock shook his head and caught a glimpse of an elderly woman giving him a look that made him fear they were all about to have their cheeks pinched.

It was not a look that was often directed his way; it had hardly even happened when he had been a child himself.

It was disconcerting.

"-You were three the last time we went," John was saying, a deep frown forming on his face.

"Yeah," Ava said in a voice that suggested John was being stupid, "I'm nearly six. That's double three."

Nearly six? Sherlock shifted at the thought of that. It was a long way off yet, surely?

Still, her point was valid, once he untangled what she'd said. Besides, he could have told John Ava's earliest memory wouldn't reach back to her previous trip to Eastbourne.

Though that would have involved then telling John what her earliest memory was, which would probably just upset John.

From John's expression it was too late for that.

"John-" he started to say, to remind him that memory was a difficult thing; that Ava's lack of memory wasn't his fault and was in no way indicative that he'd been trying to erase Harry from Ava's life.

But John cut across him. "We went with...Auntie Harry," John said, laying his hands on the table, trying to calm himself.

Ava shrugged, seemingly unconcerned by the whole thing. And why wouldn't she be? To her Harry was a vague figure that bore little relevance on her life.

"You don't remember?" John pushed.

"John-" Sherlock started again. This was going nowhere and in a few minutes John would regret it if he pushed this any further.

"She did something naughty." Ava wrinkled her nose, and Sherlock was struck by the conversation they'd had a few days earlier. Clearly she was too, as the next words out of her mouth were: "Can I have an ice-cream when we go to the sea?"

John's fingers scraped at the table as they flexed to close. Then he stood.

"John-" It was useless. John shook his head fractionally as he limped off down the train.

Sherlock rose and then sat back, tilting into the aisle to watch John walk off down the train. John couldn't have planned it better if he had tried; Ava was far more restraining than handcuffs.

Ava twisted in her chair to watch John walk through the doors and into the next carriage. "Did I say something bad?" she asked, twisting back to him.

Sherlock sat back. This was dangerous territory; John was unusually sensitive about Harry and still strained from the mystery of the female body John had expected to hear about.

"No he's just being…" Sherlock trailed off, remembering who he was talking to. "You didn't say anything bad," he settled for saying.

Ava still looked unsure.

* * *

That night, after John had put Ava to sleep in the room next to theirs - connected and only accessible by the door in their room - John folded his arms.

"Go on then."

Sherlock tilted his head, examining John to see if he could get away with distracting him from this.

It looked highly unlikely.

"I was under the impression you didn't want to talk about it," Sherlock replied.

"Yet, here we are." John indicated with his arms. "You tricked me to get me here."

"Yes."

His honesty momentarily surprised John. "Right. Well…" He cleared his throat. "Tell me then. Every bloody thing you've deduced," he snapped.

Studying him, Sherlock picked up his coat. "No."

John looked away, then sank down on the bed. "Why are we here?" he asked quietly as Sherlock buttoned up his coat.

"I could snoop, John. I could find out what happened. I probably will." He wound his scarf around his neck. "But I am aware that there are two issues here and I am not sure where one ends and the other begins."

John stared at the bed. "The great Sherlock Holmes is unsure," he mocked bitterly.

Carefully, Sherlock stepped forward and nudged a finger under John's chin to raise his eyes and then dropped his hand when John looked up.

"If I push at you, if I manipulate you to give me data you do not want to give, it will not end well," Sherlock said slowly. "And I have done enough to you recently."

John swallowed and softened. "Then why am I here?"

"Because I need to know," Sherlock replied. "And I need you to willingly tell me."

John's eyes were dark when they locked gazes once more. John looked away first and twisted his hands in his lap.

"What do you already know?"

Sherlock crouched in front of John. "That you already have difficult memories of this place; that it has to do with Harry and the transfer of Ava's perception of which one of you was the parent. That you feel guilty because you were forced to choose between Ava and Harry, and while you do not regret your choice you cannot help but wonder if you still could have done more for Harry."

John snorted. "No matter how much I hear it, I still find that amazing," he sighed and seemed to steel himself. "And the other?"

Sherlock stared at John's side, a finger moving to gently stroke around the wound. "You thought it was the body of a woman."

John drew in a shaken breath.

"You didn't seriously think it was her, but it reminded you of the situation and there was a small chance it was her. But you're not sure…" Sherlock trailed off and looked up at John. "You're not wholly sure of what happened, yet still you feel the need to hide it."

John's jaw clenched and he drew in a deep breath.

"It was while I was away," Sherlock continued, putting the effort into keeping his voice soft and slow and steady. "And we have never discussed in detail what happened between you and Moriarty."

John tensed as if to move away, and Sherlock pushed his hands on John's thighs to keep him seated. He waited until John looked at him again.

"And your reaction has just told me that he has something to do with this," Sherlock added carefully.

John shook his head, eyes worryingly bright, and Sherlock clasped his shoulders. "Whatever he made you-" John tried to pull away and Sherlock tightened his grip. "Whatever he made you do, it was not your fault, John. Moriarty-"

"Stop." John leaned back and Sherlock moved to try and stop him, all too aware of the strain that would place on his side, but John shoved at him and Sherlock backed off.

"John-"

John shook his head. "Stop. Please."

Sherlock stood slowly, hands raised and spread.

Beyond their room he could hear the faint buzz of someone's television and a trio of friends leaving the bar and stumbling home.

"I have this case," Sherlock said into the silence between them. "We're out of London and currently out of Moriarty's sphere of interest. Deal with your issues about Harry while I deal with the case."

"And then?" John asked hoarsely.

"If he can use it. If he could use it, I need to know."

John nodded.

"Then I need to know. "

John was silent.

* * *

It wasn't necessary for him to leave for the Tinch case. He had a theory about that anyway, so he wouldn't need to work particularly hard to solve it.

No, what he needed was time.

A quick search on his phone was all it took. Missing persons in London around October. Assuming Ava had been correct he could narrow it further to the middle of October. Delete all males and children.

Narrow the search range…

Simone Bartlett. Last seen October 20th at the Shakespeare Hotel.

Where John had worked.

The date of the second screen cap.

He knew that name.

She'd been working for Sherlock.

Sort of.

* * *

_Three years ago_

_He hated Dublin at this time of the year. It was cold, wet and merry. The Christmas music that John had played blared out of the pubs and stirred up memories Sherlock was sure he should delete._

_He couldn't though. Nothing important could be deleted._

_It was unlikely John would even recognise him now. Currently he had put on weight to fool Moriarty's trusted, dyed his hair, changed the cut and was wearing clothes he hated. His height couldn't be helped but he'd seen John change his stance enough times to see the value in hunching his shoulders and curling his back to change his attitude and perceptions of his height._

"_You're not what I expected, darlin'," Simone crooned as she took a sip of wine._

"_No?" he asked with a wink. God, he hated this role he had to play._

_She let her eye roam over him and Sherlock mentally sighed. Still, it would be a good way to ensure a steady flow of information about Kyle McEwan if he started an affair with the man's girlfriend._

_And, given that Kyle McEwan was one of the few people that had known Moriarty since he'd been a murderous teenager, it seemed uninteresting sex would be a low price to pay._

"_No," Simone replied. "You reckon you're an old mate of Kyle's?" she asked, leaning back to trail her foot along the seam of his jeans._

_Dull._

"_Yeah." He grinned. "It's been years though," he added. "Thought I'd look him up in case he had any work going."_

"_Work?" she asked, her foot over his knee now and continuing in a steady way that had to be admired. Clearly she had wonderful muscles in her leg to keep the movement so flowing and without strain._

_He let his eyes flicker down though, trying to gauge from what he'd seen in her face as to how far he could push her seduction and his reluctance to get on Kyle's bad side._

_It was always so much easier when his contacts did all the work for him._

"_I…" He shifted, as if unsure. "Yeah, he always knew everyone."_

"_And your…expertise," Simone questioned, toe almost at his crotch, "is what exactly?" She was actually licking her lips now._

_Sherlock shifted and cleared his throat, dislodging her foot in the process. "Staying out of trouble," he said, forcing the self-deprecating, conflicted groan. "I know what Kyle's like."_

_Her lips pinched. Clearly she was not a woman used to hearing the word no. Her eyes darted fractionally-_

_Wait._

_Sherlock scanned her again quickly as she recovered. Jewellery, clothes, hair, make-up, body…there was something._

_Watch. Too heavy, too chunky and too cheap but new. Which ruled out sentimentality, gift giving and personal taste judging from the rest of her jewellery._

"_Look." Sherlock shifted around in his pocket and drew out a piece of paper, scribbling one of his many numbers onto the paper. "I'm an electrician," he said with a smile, "I dunno if he'll even remember me…I did some wiring for him once or twice back in the day but given what Kyle's like with people." He shrugged. "If he's interested then get him to give me a call, yeah?"_

_Then with a cheerful nod he stood and started to walk away._

_It was a gamble. If he was wrong and she was just an ordinary, insipid girlfriend of one of Moriarty's contacts then he had lost easy access._

_But if he was right, then she'd have recognised the name of the dead man's alias he was using - Tommo Spencer, safe cracker extraordinaire - and wouldn't let him leave this bar._

_Or…ah. A flicker at the mirror told him what was going to happen the second he stepped out of the bar._

_Bypassing the main doors he headed for the toilets and scrambled out the window._

* * *

**April 7****th**

He was almost there with the Tinch case. And, by the time Sherlock returned to the pub they were staying at, it was morning and John was cutting up Ava's breakfast in a booth by the corner window.

"We're having sausages!" Ava announced proudly. "And they're posh because they've got green bits in them."

"Herbs," John corrected, and Sherlock inwardly sighed when John kept staring determinedly at the sausages he was cutting up and sounded as if he'd been awake all night. "And you don't need to be so loud," he added.

Ava's brow furrowed. Clearly she wasn't used to John being short with her and she looked up at Sherlock in confusion.

"Go and get some sauce," Sherlock said, nodding in the direction of the bar counter. Ava's eyes lit up and she slid from the table, her confusion with John forgotten.

John's eyes flickered for a moment before his jaw clenched and he continued to cut up the sausage in front of him.

Watching Ava in the mirror, Sherlock drummed his fingers on the spare chair back. "You should go back to bed and sleep this time."

"No."

The waitress was letting Ava pick sachets out of a basket, which probably meant she'd return with a dozen more than was needed. John's hand shook slightly as he continued to cut, the knife scraping across the plate harshly.

"I know who it was."

John's head snapped up to him and Sherlock could see John visibly steel himself.

"But you don't," Sherlock added. "He never told you her name or anything, did he?"

John's eyes slid past Sherlock to Ava, who was chatting to the young waitress.

"Tell me," John said almost inaudibly. "I should know her name."

"It won't help." Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes when Ava was handed a cookie from the cake stand. "It's not her real name."

John dragged his eyes away from Ava. "Not…" Then John paled even further.

"You knew her."

"Excellent deduction."

"Sherlock-"

"Yes." Sherlock slid into the chair he'd been holding onto. "But I never knew her real name."

* * *

"_You're undercover."_

_Simone dropped the cigarette out of her mouth. "You what, darling?" she asked, blowing out the smoke in neat patterns._

_Sherlock stepped into her light._

"_Tommo!" She grinned and he could see the flicker of relief in her eyes. "I've been trying to get hold of you."_

_Sherlock smiled and looked away. "I'm aware. I've had my rooms overridden by the police."_

_To give her credit, she could see it was a lost cause to continue, but she seemed wary that he might not be alone._

"_Your watch," he said suddenly. "Change it. Or change the style of your jewellery if you cannot fit the technology into a smaller size."_

_Simone stared down at her wrist in shock. "That was what gave it away?" she asked before she suddenly caught herself._

_Sherlock shook his head. "There's no one around to hear."_

"_Is that meant to be threatening?"_

"_Not really," Sherlock drawled._

"_Who are you?" she asked suddenly. "Not Tommo, you've switched suddenly."_

"_Unimportant," Sherlock replied, circling her._

"_You can't have Kyle," Simone said suddenly, tilting her chin. "He's mine. I've worked too long on him-"_

"_I don't want him."_

"_Or his boss. He's my next catch."_

"_Nor him," Sherlock replied silkily, getting closer._

"_Then who?"_

_Amused, Sherlock leaned in, almost tenderly. "The Boss' Boss."_

_Simone turned her cheek slightly, their skin almost brushing. "You know who that is, don't you?"_

_Even in this filthy, secure alley way they couldn't say his name. "Yes."_

"_You know what he can do?"_

"_Yes."_

_Simone swallowed. "Why?"_

"_Orders."_

_She bought it._

* * *

"So who did she work for?" John asked that evening, as they sat in their room together. Somehow John had managed to go the whole day with Ava without hunting Sherlock down for more information.

"Who do you think?" Sherlock sneered. "Who else would try to get involved?"

John blinked. "Mycroft?"

Sherlock nodded. "It was why he suspected later on. She happened to mention me a few times and once added that I had been able to tell she was undercover from the watch she wore. Of course she never met Mycroft personally, but the gossip circulated among her team and up."

There was an odd expression on John's face as he turned to the window. "I can't decide if that makes it better or worse," he said, wiping at his face.

Sherlock barely resisted the urge to pry even further into that statement. "If it helps at all, considering the dates, it is likely she was the one who raised Moriarty's suspicions also."

Shaking his head, John continued to stare out of the window, fingers curling around the sill. "No. He knew before," John said with utter certainty

"He also knew she was a spy before he came for you."

"I…" John turned back. "I don't understand then, why bother involving me at all?"

* * *

_Eight months ago_

"_Enjoying London?"_

"_Not really," she replied and he could hear he heels clipping on the pavement. "Too fussy for me."_

"_Is He coming?"_

"_Maybe," she sighed. "Someone is. Something is happening."_

"_But no sightings?" Sherlock asked, studying the map in front of him._

"_No."_

_Good. Then he was trusted. Rumours were being spread of Moriarty's travel plans and Sherlock needed to be sure he'd been told the correct ones._

"_He'll be in London in two weeks," Sherlock told her._

"_How-"_

"_It doesn't matter."_

"_Are you coming?"_

_It was tempting. So tempting. A glimpse of home…_

"_No."_

_Whatever he'd find would distract him. It was why he avoided English news reports like the plague._

"_But I can instruct you."_

* * *

"_I'm longing for the days of Kyle again. At least I never had to wear dresses like this! It's impossible to hide anything," Simone complained as she answered the phone._

_She was far too chatty on the phone._

"_He suspects." Sherlock cut her off._

_There was a pause._

"_But he doesn't know for sure."_

_Sherlock glared at the ceiling. "You are not on a mission. There is nothing important to be gained-"_

"_Are you kidding me?" Simone demanded. "Gossip, bitching, all of it. We need it. We'll never get anywhere without it."_

_No, he needed to talk to her, he needed desperately to extract the information she had gained on three bankers financing Moriarty, he needed more on Moran, he needed…_

_He needed her eyes and her memory._

_And it was too late to get them now._

* * *

"_They tried to drug me."_

"_Then don't go back-"_

"_I have to."_

_Spare him heroes. Moriarty was supposed to return briefly to Munich and he had an opening._

_But only with her information. Something was happening, something he couldn't put his finger on._

_Nothing seemed to make sense. Nothing aligned into a plan._

_He needed her alive and focused._

"_Is there any one you trust?"_

_Simone sighed. "I…there's a bartender that seems okay."_

_Good as any he supposed._

"_Use him all night."_

* * *

_Not safe. Can't talk now. Will contact you when I can darling xxx_

* * *

John sat with his head in his hands; his breathing was ragged and almost out of control.

Almost.

Sherlock stood, letting John collect himself.

"I think I-"

"No," Sherlock replied firmly as he leaned back against the dresser, facing John and leaving a long step between them.

"How can you be sure?" John lifted his head looking wrecked.

"Whatever he didn't get from her the first time, he wanted the second. Killing her via you would have served little purpose."

But John wasn't one to see these things logically. Not when he was faced with something like this. John would feel the full weight of this; convince himself there was something he could have done differently, better.

He would convince himself there had been a way out when there hadn't been.

"Moriarty is not the kind of person to lose sleep about poisoning someone regardless of their cooperation," John muttered. "And even if I didn't, I still had a hand in it. I still incapacitated her in some way-"

Hissing with frustration, Sherlock pushed himself off from where he'd been leaning. "You were a tool in this, John. You are in no way responsible-"

"Yes I am!" John stared at him as if he'd gone mad. "I poured whatever it was into her drink. I served it. I don't know how potent it was. What if someone else picked it up? If someone else suffered, it was because I didn't find a way-"

"There was no way!" Sherlock snarled. "There was nothing you could do, because I gave you nothing to work with."

"You would have found a way."

The expression on John's face…it cut at him. There was such shame there that it was unacceptable.

Completely unacceptable.

"I didn't," Sherlock answered, staring at stain in the carpet that suggested at some point someone had burned the carpet with a lit candle. There must have been a scuffle because it was nowhere near a flat surface.

"You didn't kill someone, Sherlock, you jumped off a building."

"I would have. I practically offered," Sherlock hissed.

"What?" John asked, startled.

The candle had been purple. There were still faint traces of wax in the carpet. "What would have happened, John?" He looked up at the pale-faced man on the bed. "If you had been self-sacrificing? Would you have trusted Moriarty to stay away from Ava?"

"N… He wasn't interested in her." John seemed to struggle to follow where Sherlock was going with this train of thought.

"If you were me." Sherlock stared at the picture over the bed. "Ava is to you what you are to me. Would you trust Moriarty not to go after her, just because you were dead?"

Slowly John shook his head.

"Then death was useless because it simply meant there was nothing in Moriarty's way. The same would have been true in your case. And even if he had left Ava alone, what would have happened to her? An orphan, without any close family. I wouldn't have-"

"You'd have protected her," John argued.

"Yes. For you. But I would not have taken her in. You know that."

John looked as if he would like to argue but in the end his shoulders slumped.

"There was nothing you could do, John. And there is nothing I would have had you do differently." Sherlock steeled himself, sure that one day it would get easier to say this when it was just a normal conversation and there weren't the extraordinary circumstances of a hospital room and heart monitor to blur his words. "I would not exchange what you have given me for anything."

John swallowed and nodded slowly. "That helps a little," he said eventually. "But- I have killed before. And every time I pulled the trigger it was because I knew it had to be done, I knew that there was a reason; even if it was one that had been debated miles away by people smarter than me." John traced the pattern on the bedspread as if to distance himself a little. "Did I ever tell you what happened between Moran and I at the end?"

Just the name made Sherlock want to throw something at the wall. Clenching his fists, he willed himself to calm down. "When?"

"In Afghanistan." John seemed to be looking at something else. "He was training me to shoot better. It was amazing…" A rueful smile crossed John's lips. "I was new, green to it all and all of a sudden I was one of Moran's. Everyone knew him, and me because of it. It was…" John took a deep breath. "Instant respect."

Sherlock linked his hands behind his back as he listened, not sure he would trust himself if his hands were free.

"We were…" John swallowed. "We were patrolling. We got caught by some locals…there's a difference then. They're scared, trying to defend themselves. It's hard to know what to do." John frowned. "And that can be more dangerous than going up against trained men. You doubt yourself; you hesitate, even though you're told not to. It escalated; drew attention."

John was lost in the memory now, and Sherlock dared a step forward.

"Moran turned up. We needed to get out of the situation with minimum casualties." John seemed lost for a moment.

"Moran didn't agree?"

"No." John looked up suddenly. "No, he never did. We were in a war; he hated the attempt to make it into something polite and palatable. Sometimes it isn't and sometimes doing that makes it worse. It blurs the lines and you can't keep everything separate. He wanted us out and he didn't care how he did it."

"You still admire him," Sherlock breathed, somewhat appalled at the idea.

John looked away. "He told me to shoot a woman, high up. A few I was with could have managed it on a lucky day, but we'd been working on that." John tapped his fingers on the bedspread. "I aimed, sighted her and…"

"You didn't shoot."

"No," John agreed. "I couldn't. She was scared. She wanted to protect her children. The locals saw me do it and…"

Something odd swelled within Sherlock. It was like a bubble that fizzed in his stomach and closed off his throat momentarily. There was a desperate urge to pull John to him, hold him and murmur that of course John Watson could end a skirmish, just by doing the right thing.

Of course John was that brilliant.

"It was an uneasy truce, as long as we left quickly. Moran was…incandescent with rage."

"You stopped it. He couldn't continue the fight in those circumstances."

John shrugged. "Maybe," he said and Sherlock managed to bite back the urge to snap, "Definitely." Even he could sense that today was not the right time to pick on John's inability to see the obvious.

"He screamed at me when we got back. In front of everyone. Then he told me we were done, that I'd never be able to do what was needed; I was too soft, too moralistic."

John seemed to be trying to curl in on himself. It was painfully obvious how much losing Moran's approval had knocked his confidence all those years ago.

What had suddenly made John tell the story? What was going through his head-

Oh for…

Huffing, Sherlock yanked the desk chair out and twisted it easily to place it opposite John, then sat in it.

"You're an idiot."

John had been watching him suspiciously, and nothing changed in his face. "Why?" he asked without heat.

"You have not swung in the completely opposite direction. You have not been so focused on being capable of doing what needs to be done that you have fallen into Moran's vice." Sherlock stared at John carefully, and then reached out for his knee.

John didn't react and Sherlock let his hand slide away again, disappointed.

"John-"

"Is she dead?" John asked suddenly.

It took no effort to show nothing on his face. "I don't know."

"Don't," John said firmly. "Don't do that. Do not lie to me."

"I do not know," Sherlock replied steadily.

John slowly and deliberately slid his eyes to Sherlock's pocket where his phone rested.

"One call to your brother and you would," John said simply, looking back up. Sherlock let their gazes lock and refused to look away.

"Yes."

"Is that-"

"Yes."

John jolted and looked away. "Did I...did I kill her?"

"It's highly likely," Sherlock replied after a moment. "Moriarty's plan depended on it."

"Plan?" John asked distantly.

"An aborted plan"…for now. "I was meant to look for Simone and the information she had. In my search I would have-"

"Discovered what I'd done," John said, almost inaudibly.

"Discovered what he'd made you do. But it almost certainly would have ended up with you convicted."

There was an unsettling look in John's eye that made Sherlock's heart pound in terror.

"You will not turn yourself in," Sherlock hissed, reaching over now, John's space be damned. "Do you understand me?"

"He'll use it-"

"I don't care," Sherlock snarled. "I will not lose you; I will not let him take this from me. Not again."

"I committed a crime-"

"No, you didn't! You were used to commit a crime; like a knife or a gun. You would not have done anything."

"Sherlock-"

"Don't you dare leave me."

The words shocked them both. John looked so taken aback it would have been funny had the circumstances been different. But there was that churning terror that still nagged at Sherlock; that John might be taken away, stolen and locked away somewhere Sherlock couldn't reach.

John stood suddenly and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders, dipping down to press a kiss onto the crown of Sherlock's head.

"I'm sorry," John murmured, "I didn't…God, the last thing you need is this conversation."

Despite himself, Sherlock leaned into John, taking in the clean, warm smell that was John Watson.

"I'll find something," Sherlock promised John's clavicle. "I promise, I'll work out what he did, I'll-"

"Shush," John soothed, brushing fingers through his hair. "It'll be okay."

Sherlock traced John's wound and nodded.

He'd make sure of it.


	5. Chapter 4: April 8th

**Ok - So i'm feeling rather sheepish! I accidently posted the chapter with the editing notes still in and have just spent the last few hours screaming at the computer to get rid of them. I think it's ok now...please God let it be ok now!**

**Thanks to those who reviewed and mentioned it! I would never have realised if you hadn't.**

**So...chapter four take two!**

**Warnings for vague mentions of self harm.**

* * *

**Chapter Summary: Sherlock and Ava solve a case and Sherlock goes to Mycroft for a chat.**

* * *

**April 8****th**

Warm. John was warm.

Half asleep still, Sherlock pushed against him, nuzzling down and enjoying the delicious feel of skin, blankets, breath and pulse next to him.

Until an absent hand stroked his back.

John was awake.

Wide awake.

Twisting himself to look up, Sherlock rotated until he was looking up at John, who was sitting up against the pillows and staring at the door, miles away in the half light of dawn.

It was obvious, even as sleep fled, that John hadn't slept. That was irritating; if Sherlock had known John had planned to stay up all night he would have joined him.

"Stop thinking, I can hear you from here."

The hand on his back continued to stroke gently. "I'm pretty sure my thinking is nowhere near as loud as your snoring," John said, sighing.

Deliberately, Sherlock twisted his cold feet onto John's calf and received a smart rap on the back for his efforts.

"I told you I would take care of it," Sherlock muttered, rolling away to stretch out, causing John to huff in annoyance as he let an arm and leg lay across John to extend his limbs to their full range.

"And I told you-"

"I will call Mycroft." Sherlock arched his back and then sat up. "I will then track her last movements and see if we can find her body. Depending on the results we will then either hide her better or turn the body over to the police."

John shifted. "We?"

"You and I, unless you object."

John searched his eyes, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's nose. "No."

"That, however, I object to," he muttered, sneering and rubbing at his nose.

John smiled.

* * *

Sherlock took Ava so John could have the morning to catch up on sleep.

And, as he had the means in his hands, he decided he might as well use Ava to her full advantage.

The Tinch case was odd. While growing up and enduring teenagers, Sherlock had been aware of a slight horror film craze that included devilish children, but it had always seemed such a foolish idea. Children were tiny and not at all bright.

Now, knowing Ava, it seemed somewhat…unsettling that such children could exist. After all, she also had an impressive habit of just appearing sometimes.

The only viable solution was that the murderer was the daughter. The nine-year-old daughter who had likely been sprinkling copper onto her parents' food to see what would happen. The mother had indeed been involved in the cover-up to protect her child, but the daughter had planted her own drawing in Mr Tinch's pocket.

Psychopathic.

Was this what Moriarty had been like as a child?

He needed proof. At the moment it was the only theory that made sense, but he needed to be sure before he did anything.

Using Ava was…not ideal. But he picked a public place, sat close to the girls and was ready to interfere should the daughter get too close to his.

As it turned out, Sherlock needn't have worried. Ava apparently took his instructions to heart to act as if she desperately wanted his attention.

She started swinging.

Higher. And higher. To the point where he was sure she was almost level with the bars.

That had not been the plan at all.

What if she fell? What if she lost her grip, tumbled back, and broke her neck? What if she banged her head or bruised herself?

When he couldn't stand it any longer he stood, determined to put an end to it .

As if sensing his concern, Ava slowed, and Sherlock was able to cover up his movement, making it appear that he was angry with a message shown on his phone. He sat back down again to text, keeping an eye on Ava as she started chatting to the other girl.

The Tinch girl was the polar opposite of Ava. Where Ava was chatting eagerly, every emotion singing from her face, her companion was cold. Unmoved, despite whatever they were talking about, she never showed any sign of shock or any form of trauma. There was simply a vague air of curiosity – like a person glancing at the ants they stepped upon when crossing a road.

And she was leaning closer to Ava.

Suddenly the entire idea seemed monumentally stupid.

Ava was five inches away from a murderer, while Sherlock was ten strides away.

Wrong.

Sherlock stood and jerked his head, summoning Ava. His five-year-old tilted her head curiously, and he could almost hear her asking if they were done.

When she got to him he closed his hand over her tiny one and pulled her away with him, not stopping until they were almost back at the pub.

What had he been thinking?

What had she been thinking? She could have fallen, slid off, anything.

It was utterly irrational. Ava had never shown herself to be anything other than agile and robust, but he found himself staring at her arms and thin little wrists that looked so utterly fragile, and imagined them snapping-

Nausea welled up in him.

"You went too high on the swings," he said as they entered the car park, trying to get his traitorous thoughts under control.

"You said to make it clear that you weren't paying me any attention," Ava protested. "It was the only thing I could think of." She looked so pleased with herself that he could almost feel himself relent.

Still, the next time she went on the swings they should agree on the rules beforehand.

"Did your death defying stunts work?" he asked .

Ava shook her head with disappointment. "No. She didn't really say anything."

"You asked about her father?"

Ava shot him a look. "Yes," she huffed, "I did everything just the way you told me to."

"And what did she say?"

"That her Daddy was on his phone a lot," Ava said, squinting up at him accusingly. "I fibbed and said you were always on your phone too."

"That's hardly a lie," Sherlock muttered.

Ava shot him a look of pure disbelief. "Yes it is; you're never on _your_ phone," she scolded. "You use Daddy's. Or the policeman's."

Pride kicked his gut and put a smile on his face. It was probably not good to be proud that a five-year-old was able to distinguish such minute details; many would sigh in irritation and accuse him of teaching her to be pedantic.

"What did she say exactly?" Sherlock asked, trying not to let anything show.

"That…" Ava looked to the side, almost comically furrowing her brow. "That he should have known better than to spend all his time on the phone." She looked at Sherlock again, and her gaze was so pointed he had to resist the smile all over again.

"Say it to me exactly as she said it."

He was draining her interest by pushing this, he could tell. "'My Dad was always on his phone. He should have known better'," Ava recited quickly. "Can we have lunch now? You didn't have breakfast."

That seemed like an excellent idea.

* * *

"Ava interrogated a suspect?" John asked, drumming his fingers on the table as Ava played in the garden outside.

It wasn't that he'd intended to have Ava lie to John; he just hadn't expected her to launch over to her father and announce the entire morning in so much detail that she'd given Sherlock half a dozen leads to gather more evidence for the police.

"Yes." He may as well accept the 'punishment'.

But then John's eyes slid to his and a smile tugged at his lips. "So you're getting her started in the family business early then?"

"I don't see how that relates to doctor - oh!" Sherlock whipped his head to Ava and then to John.

"And you call me an idiot." John took a sip of his coffee.

* * *

"Enjoying your holiday?" Mycroft enquired politely when he answered his phone. "You must be if you're deigning to call rather than text."

Sherlock huffed at the window, watching as his breath steamed the glass and hid the view of the fields surrounding the pub. "Is Simone Bartlett dead?"

"Who?"

"A woman. One of yours. She was going under the name Simone Bartlett."

Mycroft drew in an annoyed breath. "I have told you time and time again that I am not omniscient-"

"The one who led you to believe I was alive."

There was silence.

"Yes," Mycroft confirmed quietly.

Sherlock let his eyes flicker from the view to John and Ava, sitting on one of the outdoor benches with her homework.

"Have you found her body?"

"No." Mycroft sounded as if he were shifting in his chair. "But we had visual confirmation."

"How did she die?"

"Why?" Mycroft asked almost gently. If the situation hadn't been so…important, Sherlock might have rolled his eyes at his brother attempting a softer emotion.

"How did she die?" Sherlock repeated firmly, slower than the first time he asked.

"You cannot expect me to give you information when you will give me nothing in return."

Typical.

Frustrated, Sherlock hung up the phone and placed it on the window sill, resting his head against the cool glass.

Either way it would be a gamble. It was unlikely that Mycroft would do anything to John, extremely unlikely that Mycroft wouldn't understand that sometimes there were only distasteful options, but Sherlock wasn't wholly sure that Mycroft wouldn't use it against him at a later date.

After all, Mycroft was an expert at distasteful options.

The other option was gambling that something had indeed gone wrong that night. That Moriarty's plans to have Sherlock investigate a disappearance that would end up with John in prison had somehow fallen apart. Had it been an easy option Moriarty would have wheeled out John's part in Simone's death at the start of the year…in December even.

Ava, at some point, had clearly grown bored with the homework and was now sitting on the table, cross legged and looking as if she were attempting to be very serious. Even from the upstairs window, Sherlock could see John was struggling; he was pale, tired, his lips firmed and reluctant to curve into one of his smiles.

And, though she meant well, Ava wasn't helping.

But, to Sherlock's surprise, John seemed to somehow swallow back his exhaustion, despite the worries clearly tormenting him, and said something that made Ava grin and relax a little, placing her elbow on one of her crossed legs and her chin upon the back of her hand.

It was a stark reminder of just how good John had become at swallowing everything back to keep Ava oblivious and secure.

Irrationally, fury bubbled over and Sherlock flung himself away from the window to pace the room.

Why could John manage it? Sherlock had done everything, _everything_ possible to keep John out of this. To distract Moriarty while still convincing the consulting criminal that he was dead.

It wasn't fair!

His head screamed with it, dull monotonous noise that buzzed and ached until he wanted nothing more than to lash out at something. Anything. It was that unending hatred and utter frustration that he had felt as a teenager when people didn't react the way they were meant to; when they failed to see the world the way he did.

But this time it was his own failure that screeched at him and made his mind hazy and slow.

He needed something to cut through the haze; to focus on like a knife's point cutting through cloying gauze. Cocaine usually did the trick. Scissors had once worked; though it usually attracted far too much concern from those around him. Throwing things worked when he was a child, and there was still some relief from watching the useless figurines his father bought to "apologise" for his latest indiscretion shatter across the wallpaper.

An argument; he needed someone to rip to pieces and tear asunder.

Not John or Ava. Never John or Ava, not in this mood.

And the answer appeared, made him smile without emotion and leave out the back, avoiding the two sitting on the bench.

* * *

_Gone to Mycroft. Be back tomorrow. Use the credit card however you wish. SH_

_You've gone? Already? JW_

_Sherlock? JW_

* * *

The cameras picked him up the moment he stepped off the train. By the time he walked through the barriers and out of the station, Mycroft's car was there to pick him up.

The car took him to an old warehouse by the docks – a favourite place of Mycroft's to spook people into doing what he wanted them to.

It was also deserted. Empty in a way Mycroft's officious office never could be.

Mycroft's lips firmed as Sherlock stepped into the light, dragging a finger over the top of the chair as he walked towards his brother.

On the way into London he had managed to snap at no less than five people, two of whom had left his company in tears, and one of whom had looked like they might make it to a private area to weep.

It had calmed him down somewhat.

"I want an agreement. A promise," Sherlock said, fixing his brother with a firm look.

Mycroft's face flickered with too many emotions to read at once. "What is it?"

"I want your word first."

The muscles in Mycroft's jaw jumped and beat a steady rhythm. "I know you too well for that, Sherlock. Do not think me an idiot."

The journey had given him some time to think, to debate and reason. Slowly, he opened his mouth, saliva suddenly drying as if trying to glue his lips back together and prevent the words from spilling out.

"Please."

He couldn't look at Mycroft; instead, Sherlock stared firmly at the chair.

Mycroft moved closer, until he was almost in Sherlock's line of vision. Unwilling to look at him, Sherlock tilted his head slightly, losing Mycroft's shadow as his head turned away.

"What's happened?"

"Promise," Sherlock ground out, still resolutely looking away as his fingers clenched on the chair. "Swear you will not use it. That once John and I make a decision, you will never mention it again."

The sound of the umbrella being placed carefully against the wall made Sherlock wince inwardly.

The more precise and controlled Mycroft became, the angrier he was.

"You think I would?" Mycroft asked, as if they were discussing the latest weather report. "That I would use something of this magnitude against you?"

"You don't know what it is," Sherlock snapped.

"Clearly it was enough to bring you here, begging."

Sherlock remained silent.

"You want me to say the words," Mycroft breathed, his words clipped as they had been at their mother's funeral.

Sherlock waited.

"I promise," Mycroft said after a moment.

"Moriarty used John the night Simone Bartlett was killed. It is likely that he left evidence, real or contrived, to implicate it was solely John who killed her."

Mycroft, when Sherlock looked up and over at him at last, looked pale and, for a fraction of a second, before Mycroft realised Sherlock had looked over, he seemed…hurt.

But it was gone so quickly that Sherlock wasn't at all sure he'd seen it in the first place.

Slowly, Mycroft walked to the table, opened the briefcase and pulled out a file.

"John did not kill her," he said, pulling out a black pen and adding to the redaction.

"Something went wrong?" Sherlock asked, trying to adjust again to his brother's mood.

"Your 'friend' would have brought it to your attention long before now if that wasn't the case," Mycroft replied, flipping the pages and adding to the thick black lines every so often. "But you knew that."

"John could still have killed her, or been implicated-"

"I doubt it. She put a gun to her mouth."

Relief swamped Sherlock and made his knees almost buckle.

"You're sure?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course she was already showing the effects of poisoning. It is hard to tell without an autopsy how fatal the poison would have been and the dosage."

It was still enough to charge John with attempted murder if Moriarty had set it up right.

"Where-"

Mycroft slid the file across the table, seemingly happy with his 'editing'. "Everything you need to know is in there," he said and tapped the lid back onto the pen smartly. "Anything else?" he enquired.

Sherlock opened the folder and flicked through it casually. "Were you in a relationship with her?"

"What?" Mycroft snapped in confusion. "Why on earth would you think that?"

"Your reaction." Sherlock closed the file. "It was far too…sentimental."

Mycroft's face could have been chiseled in stone for the amount of expression that was showing on it.

That was the end of that conversation had seen this too many times as a child; it was what made Mycroft so good at his job. When he became livid, he just shut down. Moriarty's nickname was spot on.

Ice man.

Sherlock picked up the file and turned on his heel.

"What made you think you had to beg?"

What?

Sherlock turned back to Mycroft, who was reorganising the paperwork in the briefcase.

"Because I jumped off a building for him and you couldn't even take him to the damned hospital."

Mycroft nodded. "You faked your death, your suicide, your hopelessness, and made us all believe we had failed you, while I did everything I could do bring you back. Tell me, which of us was more emotional?"

"You saw something that I did that day, you nitpicked some marginal error as usual-"

"No." Mycroft closed the briefcase with the exact amount of pressure that made the top click neatly with the bottom.

"Why would you look otherwise?" Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft met his eyes, stare for stare.

Oh.

Unsure as to how to react or process the heartfelt confession, Sherlock shifted the folder in his hand, feeling rather uncomfortable.

"Yes, well…" Mycroft sounded almost as uncomfortable as he felt. "Funerals often inspire reflection and self-analysis. Often one finds themselves fruitlessly chasing flights of fancy for opportunities not taken and things not…implied."

It was tempting to just run out of the door. To mutter something that would let them both pretend this conversation hadn't taken place and flee it for the rest of his life.

John would mock him. And Ava…did he really want to be this inept when she was older and wished to discuss…feelings?

Making Mycroft into a test subject lessened the nausea fractionally.

"You said caring wasn't an advantage."

"It isn't," Mycroft said, looking as if he wished he'd brought paperwork to do to use as a distraction. "It's utterly debilitating at times. Yet, despite that, it is also inescapable."

Sherlock nodded, his mind drifting to the first time he had seen John smile shyly, the first time Ava had purposefully and knowingly manipulated him. "Yes," he said simply. "It is."

"Then you can accept that I suffered a series of paradigm shifts while you were away and since you have returned." Mycroft drummed his fingers on the case, clearly eager to get this over and done with. "There is no need to…bargain like we once used to."

"It was not _my_ life that I was negotiating."

Mycroft's eyes saddened slightly. "I think we both know that isn't true."

After a moment Sherlock nodded.

* * *

John didn't say a word when Sherlock walked into their room at twenty past one that morning.

"John-"

"Did I kill her?"

"No."

John's head whipped up in shock. "What?" he whispered, sounding stunned.

"The worst that could ever be brought up against you is attempted murder. I imagine it's why Moriarty scrapped that plan; it wasn't worth it."

Clearly suspicious, John narrowed his gaze.

"Did you shoot her?"

"No."

"Then we can safely assume you did not end her life."

John let out a gasped breath that sounded as if he was about to collapse. "God…Christ, I shouldn't be this relieved," he muttered. "Poor woman."

Sherlock chose not to say anything, his own mind flicking back to his conversation with Mycroft. It was probably not a good idea to mention how hopeful he'd been when Mycroft had been stringing him along.

"Have you taken those?" Sherlock asked, nodding at the packet on the bedside table containing the painkillers.

John blinked at him owlishly and then yawned as he looked over. "I…no, I wasn't really thinking."

Sherlock dug into his pocket. "Take these. They'll help you sleep," he said, pulling out the bottle and shaking two out.

Seemingly bemused at the situation, John obediently took the pills and swallowed them down with the water on the table. "You could have told me you were leaving," he muttered.

"That would not have been wise. I was not in a good mood."

John almost gawped. "Wait…you deliberately avoided me until you were in a better mood rather than picking a fight?"

"Yes, I have grown as a person," Sherlock said irritably as he indicated John should lie down. "It does not need to be discussed."

But John ignored the unsubtle hints and grabbed at his jacket. "You didn't have to…but thank you."

Sherlock extracted himself from the loose grip. "It's immensely unsatisfying, arguing with you when you aren't at your best." Sherlock pushed at John gently, and this time John let himself be guided to the mattress. "And Ava's logic is simply torturous."

John smiled as he yawned. "I really do love you," he murmured, then blinked. "Christ, how strong are those?" he asked, glaring at the bottle.

"Should I be offended that a declaration of love has convinced you you're high?"

John shook his head. "Not that," he murmured. "Was thinking."

"Of?"

"Perfect family."

"You are high," Sherlock said, pulling the covers up. "Perhaps one would have been sufficient."

"Can I tell you a secret?" John asked as he buried his head into the pillow.

Squatting by the bed so their faces were level, Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"This is it," John said, voice starting to slur a little. Sherlock turned the jar to read the label again as he patted the back of John's hand.

"That makes no sense," he scolded, scanning the ingredients and warnings.

"For me," John added, frowning. "This is it."

"You aren't dying, John, I may have just miscalculated the dose; you are shorter than I am and you did lose weight in hospital. The fact that I've barely seen you naked since you were shot does not help-"

"You are it for me," John huffed. "The last one."

Sherlock frowned; John shouldn't be so incoherent; his sentences weren't even linking up.

"You…You're the love of my life. You're it for me. Never gonna be better than this, with you and Ava and cases. Never want to lose that. Ever."

Sherlock blinked at John and then down at the bottle as if there would be an explanation on the side.

"Sleep, you idiot," John huffed, tugging ineffectively at Sherlock's sleeve. "Or say something nice back."

It still didn't come easily and Sherlock doubted it would for a while. Silently, he stood and got ready for bed, turning off the lights as he went and checking briefly on Ava in the adjoining room. She was sound asleep with what looked like a pile of books acting as a teddy bear.

Strange child.

But when he climbed into bed and let John press in close, Sherlock stared at the ceiling, mind whirring as he sorted through his thoughts.

"We should have a shag."

Sherlock nodded. "That seems highly unlikely tonight," he replied, almost amused.

"Soon," John stubbornly insisted.

"Soon," Sherlock agreed.


	6. Chapter 5: April 10th

**Bad week! But will now have lots of writing time so swings and roundabouts! And thank you all so, so much because I have nearly 100 reviews for five chapters, which is amazing! And everyone reading has been so great - it cheered me up so much to log in and check the traffic stats. :D**

**Thanks to Swissmiss for betaing the chapter! And to Justine Lark for sparking off an idea in her brilliant fic (which I heartily recommend) which led to the following conversation in this fic. :)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**April 10th**

"If you had to pick a Disney princess which one would you marry?"

Sherlock stared at Ava, unimpressed.

John, on the other hand, shot him an amused look and tapped his fingers on his lips in mock thought. "Well, that's a difficult question," he said, and Sherlock glanced at him, impressed by the amount of false sincerity in his voice (surely it had to be fake?). John rarely showed that level of commitment during a case.

Ava nodded as she sucked on the straw in front of her. The ice cream milkshake that Sherlock was never going near again crawled up the spirals slowly. "I know," she replied seriously.

"Are we going by the Disney versions?" John asked, cheeks red from the wind.

"Yeah," Ava said. Her nose screwed up at the idea of there possibly being anything else.

"The originals are far more interesting," Sherlock muttered. "And realistic-"

John kicked at him under the table and Sherlock pressed his lips together, glaring. In response, John just smiled sweetly back at him.

"Annie said I looked like Sleeping Beauty," Ava muttered after a moment. "But she's boring, right? No one wants to marry her."

Annie. The current irritation in Sherlock's life. Sister to the older member of the couple that ran the pub and clearly desperate for nieces and nephews.

In future there would have to be a far stricter vetting process before anyone babysat Ava.

"Why?" John asked, looking confused.

"She sleeps." Ava stirred the straw around the plastic cup. "I don't want to be sleeping while everyone else gets to have fun. And who wants to marry someone who just stays in bed?"

"That's…very true," John said nodding seriously. "So I suppose that rules out Snow White."

Ava shot him a puzzled look. "I thought you'd want to marry her."

"Why?" John asked, grinning and flashing an amused look at Sherlock.

"Because Sherlock looks like her."

John exploded into laughter, made worse by the fact he was clearly trying not to laugh.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock turned to Ava properly. "And how have you arrived at that conclusion?"

"Hair as black as ebony and skin as white as snow," Ava told him seriously. "And everyone else around you might seem like dwarves because you're so tall."

John sniggered even more and seemed to be struggling to get himself under control. Throwing him a look Sherlock took a deep breath.

"And which one would I marry?" he asked, determined to get some measure of revenge.

Ava blinked and then turned to look at John, head tilting as she pondered. John, unsurprisingly, sobered a little and pulled a face at Sherlock.

The plan was ruined after about ten seconds when Ava shook her head and declared that John didn't quite match up with a Disney princess in the same way, which sent John into giggles again.

* * *

"Mycroft has retrieved the folder. Her real name was Lianne Summers," Sherlock announced as he walked into their room that evening after Ava had gone to bed. "We'll have it when we get back to London."

John nodded, looking much healthier and far more alert than he done earlier in the week. "Do you really think you'll be able to find her body from just the file and the statements from the team?"

"Do you doubt me?"

"No," John said in a tone that immediately had Sherlock sigh in frustration as he guessed what was about to follow. "I never doubt Snow White."

"Did you pay her to do that?" Sherlock muttered. "You came out of it far too well."

John shook his head. "No," he said, frowning a little, "no, I was expecting a far more…difficult conversation when she first brought it up."

"Why?" Sherlock asked as he texted a reply to Mycroft.

"Well…role models, that sort of thing. And of course the fact that homosexual relationships aren't exactly mentioned in fairy tales. I could see the whole thing getting really complicated," John muttered uncomfortably.

"There is, however, a romance story between a man and an overgrown fish. Direct her to that one if you wish to explain 'unconventional' relationships."

"How do you delete the solar system and not fairy tales?" John asked and sat down on the bed.

"It…" Sherlock resisted the urge to stamp his foot in frustration. "Must you always raise that matter? On occasion my line of work leads me down certain avenues. It is culture, John, something I must be aware of."

John nodded slowly and reached out a hand. "Come here."

"I am not a dog." Sherlock set his phone to the side petulantly.

Behind him he heard the bed creak as John stood up. The floor boards sounded until John came to a stop behind him and rested his forehead on Sherlock's neck.

"I suppose, if it helps, I'd probably be likened to one of your faithful dwarves. Maybe Doc!"

Despite himself, Sherlock felt his lips curve into a smile. "You'd be useless with a pick-axe."

John nodded against him. "Really useless," he agreed.

Hands slid around his waist and dipped under Sherlock's shirt. Surprised, Sherlock sucked in a breath as fingers fractionally colder than the skin on his stomach stroked lightly.

John started to nuzzle at his neck, sweet, soft kisses that were barely there but sent shivers racing down Sherlock's spine.

It had been a long time since they had done this. Over a month and he'd barely let himself think about it until recently. Having John next to him, injured, would have been far too distracting otherwise.

He could re-map everything, start again, detailing and analysing and exploring-

The scar.

Sherlock stiffened at the thought. Moran's mark, the wound he had once thought he would never see heal.

_John on the ground, clothes stained and desperately pale, shuddering-_

_So easily hurt._

"Sherlock?"

John had stopped and started to move around so that he could see Sherlock's face.

"You…you are not fully recovered yet." Sherlock twisted away.

"Then don't bounce me around the bed," John suggested, following him.

"The last time you were injured you tore your stitches," Sherlock pointed out, still retreating, though John was between him and the door now. Deliberately, he suspected.

"It's fine," John said firmly. "Stop being a baby."

Sherlock looked at the bed, mind racing.

"Or tell me what the real problem is?" John offered, leaning against the door, arms folded.

Sherlock glared.

"Okay." John hummed for a moment. "I know, it's because this will be the first time in bed since you expressed your feelings and you're terrified I'll start classing it as 'making love'."

Sherlock stared in horror.

"Believe me; I can think of many more like that," John threatened. "What's wrong?"

"You'll never repeat that phrase again?" Sherlock bargained after a moment.

"Never, ever."

"I…I didn't think I would see it scar. I thought you would…" Sherlock somehow managed to force himself not to look away from John's gaze, hating the memory of how dangerously pale John had looked when he'd been laying on the floor, bleeding.

"Oh." John looked vaguely relieved, then worried. "Oh."

Taking a deep, calming breath, Sherlock dared a step forward. "Show me."

Looking suddenly nervous, John seemed steel himself before stepping away from the door and tug the t-shirt over his head. Then, with hands that weren't quite steady, he started to remove the dressing.

It was almost healed now. Both the entry and exit wounds. There were fine lines from the surgery that had repaired the mess the bullet had made and the skin was covered in fading bruises. The bullet wound itself was so utterly neat it was obscene.

It was a stark contrast to the scarring on John's shoulder. There was something honest and sturdy in the scars that had been made by those who hadn't had time for cosmetic considerations.

John shifted, staring at the wall and looking pale and uncomfortable.

"Does it still hurt?"

John nodded, his expression and gaze unwavering. "Sometimes."

Unsure, Sherlock reached out a hand and skimmed the lines with his finger tip. John gasped faintly and tensed a little but he didn't move away.

It was foolish to be angry at skin. At marks and scars that weren't sentient. But he was. Sherlock let his eyes drift to the scarred shoulder; the wound that had brought John to him. The mark of a soldier, of a brave man.

The one on John's stomach was there because of Sherlock's idiocy, and it hadn't escaped his notice that the scar from New Year's was visible under the bandages as well, tangling in with the new marks.

Unable to look at it any longer, Sherlock bowed his head to John's shoulder, passing lips and nose and breath over the ragged skin and smooth muscle. He trailed his lips against one line, knowing it usually made John suck in a gasp.

This time John didn't sound so relaxed as he shivered and hunched his shoulder.

"Idiot," Sherlock whispered, turning so his mouth was by John's ear. "I always want you," he added, nuzzling until he found John's lips.

"Even with his scar?" John asked as Sherlock pulled away.

Sherlock dropped his eyes to the mark again and John seemed to be tensing to pull away.

"My mark." Sherlock corrected. "This..." He passed a hand over the scars. "This was done because of me."

"Sherlock-"

"I dislike the physical reminder that I…I can make you bleed."

John raised a hand and sighed, taking Sherlock's in his own. "It heals," he said after a moment, pressing Sherlock's hand a little firmer into his stomach. "And it changes."

Sherlock nodded and John dropped his hand.

Then Sherlock shook himself, pulled himself back from the morbid mood, aware that John was standing half naked in a cold room. "You should-" He made a gesture towards John's shirt

He pretended not to see the way John's shoulders dropped in disappointment.

* * *

John wasn't sleeping; he was far too still.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling for an age before turning to him slowly. In the haze of night he could see the shadow of John's head turn towards him as he lay with his back to Sherlock.

"You should sleep," Sherlock said quietly, part of him shifting at the idea of repeating words John so often said to him.

"Is it…is it just the scar or is it what you've found out?"

Found out-

Sherlock sat up violently and yanked the light on. "What?" he snapped.

John hadn't moved. "Is it the situation with Simone?"

Infuriated, Sherlock climbed out of the bed and yanked his dressing gown on.

John let out a long, irritated sigh and shifted on the bed, deeper into the pillows.

"Do you think I'm that…ordinary?"

Under the blankets, John stiffened and sat up. "So you think that normal, sane people would blame me-"

"Ordinary people are usually too blinded by the insipid, naïve ideas of morality," Sherlock snapped.

"Then what is your problem?" John hissed, leaning forward.

It sent him mad.

There was a moment when John gasped in shock but Sherlock swallowed the sound into his own mouth as he forced John back with his own body. It could barely be called kissing, what he was doing. Attacking, plundering, ripping into John, anything but the word kissing with all its soft and sweet connotations.

As John hit the mattress with Sherlock on top he let out a strangled whine. His wound was probably being ground against the bed with Sherlock's weight pressing him down more than usual.

There wasn't time to give John a chance to gasp for breath; instead, Sherlock's hands pushed at John's pyjama bottoms and yanked them down.

He was dimly aware that he was muttering something against John's lips, almost inaudible, but it was lost to him in the haze-

Until John's hands grabbed for his, pulled them off his legs and up to his chest and the thumping beat of John's heart that lay underneath.

"I'm here," John was saying, "I'm fine. I'm here."

Sherlock dragged his head down, replacing his hands with his ear as John sighed and stroked a hand through Sherlock's curls.

_Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump_

"I can't," Sherlock whispered against the damp skin, shaking his head. "I…I want to tear and shred until I know every inch of you again. I can't…I'll hurt you."

And he would. The urge he felt to take John apart to see how everything linked together was barely held at bay by the repetitive, soothing sound of John's heartbeat and the calm hand on his head. Numbers. Numbers were good; he could count the number of breaths in a minute, calculate John's pulse rate and compare it against other times. He could predict how many strokes it would take before John's hand tired of moving through his hair.

Numbers, data, hard cold facts that could temper the sheer emotion that was curling his stomach and flashing through his chest.

John remained silent throughout it all, until Sherlock felt his body start to uncoil and relax. Then, under him, John shifted. "Trust me?"

"You are not the problem," Sherlock muttered, still not removing his head, almost lulled by the heartbeat and starting to feel far more in control again.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock sat up to look at him. "What?"

"Lie back down. Over there." John indicated the empty space beside him on the mattress.

Suspicious, Sherlock twisted and scooted himself down the bed gingerly, alert to sudden surprises.

To his credit, John didn't bother trying to hide what he was reaching for. A pair of handcuffs (god only knew what was going through John's head when they had left Baker Street) appeared, and John fastened Sherlock to the headboard.

Sherlock watched the process, tugging at the cuffs and studying the make as John sat back on his heels, looking torn.

Sherlock met his eyes and nodded, once.

John crawled forward, reaching for the drawer, staring down, ghosting his lips over Sherlock's skin in a way that made Sherlock shiver.

Then he sighed with a weak chuckle and leaned his forehead on Sherlock's neck, dropping his hand from the drawer.

"I'm as bad as you," John muttered after a moment, rolling away to lie on his back next to Sherlock. "Fuck sakes."

Shifting as best he could, Sherlock turned to him. "You are not normally this desperate to be submissive."

John glared. "Shut up, it isn't about that. It's just…we don't really do…gentle here, do we?"

Sherlock tilted his head to look up at the handcuffs and sniggered. "No, not really."

John followed his gaze and snorted. "_They_ make a regular appearance far too often," he added.

Since it no longer seemed as if the handcuffs would be an interesting addition, Sherlock started to slip out of them. "Could you not have realised this before you bound me to the headboard?"

"I could get the key-" John broke off as Sherlock shot him a filthy look. "Sorry, I forgot that's an insult in your world."

Out of the restraints, Sherlock stretched his shoulders and turned his head to look at John. "How long?" he asked.

"Two weeks, give or take. I guess it depends on how…" John looked suddenly prudish, which was a look Sherlock rarely ever got to see, "Uh…desperate you want to be"

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, then hissed and threw the handcuffs onto the floor. "I hate it when you get shot." He sulked.

John was silent for a second or two, then his shoulders started to shake in amusement, jostling the bed.

* * *

And they say romance is dead! I tried, I really tried to have a tender loving moment but it just wasn't happening!

Next Chapter: Ava is sulking when they return to London as their room at Eastbourne was in prime location for the ice cream van, while Sherlock and John set to work on the Simone situation.


	7. Chapter 6: April 15th to 17th

**Over 100 reviews! Eeek!**

**Thank you :)**

**PS - There is a slight time jump here but, think of it as not long until the chapter on "Parents Evening"!**

* * *

**Chapter Summary: Back in London, John and Sherlock settle down to start the hunt for Simone's body**

* * *

**15****th**** April**

It was good to be back in London. All that fresh air and open space had become unnervingly dull after a while. It was all so constantly similar: the people, the landscape, the gossip.

Give him London any day of the week.

Ava, however, was still sulking. Probably because there had been a park near the B&B with an ice-cream van parked right next to it that she had adored and had constantly bribed John to buy her treats from.

"When can we go again?" Ava asked within five minutes of being back at the flat.

"Would you not want to try somewhere different next time?" John asked, flipping on the kettle.

Ava flopped down on the sofa next to Sherlock. He glanced at her, slightly surprised at her proximity. "Have you got another case?" she asked eagerly, almost crawling onto his lap to see the laptop screen.

Exactly when had she decided that his lap was a place to sit?

"No," he replied. He willed himself to relax and not open his emails; her reading was getting far too quick to risk that.

Her little shoulders dropped in disappointment and she turned to him a little, curling into his chest in a slight sulk again.

"You'll see your friends soon," John's voice sounded from the kitchen.

"At school," Ava whined and looked up at Sherlock so beseechingly that he snapped his gaze back to the screen.

"School is necessary," he replied after a moment, feeling as if he should say something.

Against his chest Ava nodded, her hair tickling his chin. "Daddy says I have to go if I want to be as smart as you."

Sherlock glared at John as he walked in with the tea. John shot him an innocent look that was quickly replaced with a delighted smile at the sight of Ava and Sherlock. No matter how many times it had happened on holiday, John still seemed to take an extraordinary amount of pleasure in seeing the pair of them together.

Giving in, Sherlock rearranged Ava a little and rested his chin on her hair as he put the laptop onto the arm of the sofa, ensuring that her back was to the screen before he started scanning his emails. John sat on the other side of the sofa, and then Sherlock suppressed an eye roll as John started testing Ava's addition skills. Ava, still curled up on his lap, raised her head slightly to look at Sherlock before letting out along sigh and shifted even closer to sleepily answer the questions.

It didn't take long for John to declare that she was ready for bed. Sherlock momentarily tightened his grip before releasing it, not wanting John to see. She curled into him briefly as she muttered 'good night' to him. He felt a nagging urge to go up with John to put her to sleep.

John was the primary caregiver. That was his job, not Sherlock's.

* * *

**16****th**** April**

The folder arrived while John was dropping Ava off at school (and apparently taking his sweet time in returning). It was hand-delivered by one of Mycroft's lackey's, which explained why the man looked like he had put on weight recently if he was using staff when he was perfectly capable of dropping the documents round himself.

Sherlock placed it on a side table, dragged into the middle of the room, and then circled it warily, trying to predict John's reaction to this.

He would be upset. That much was obvious. It would likely increase the guilt he felt and haunt John as details formed a clearer image of the woman. It seemed highly probable that this would restart the nightmares that John had just about been cured of Sherlock had left all those years ago. It was also possible John would attempt to withdraw again, though Sherlock would not allow that plan to succeed.

"Sherlock? Bloody traffic, I swear I am coming round to Ava's notion of living in-" John trailed off as he entered the flat. "Is that-"

Sherlock looked up from the file to John, who was standing almost directly opposite him in the doorway. John looked pale and was slowly taking off his coat, as if any sudden movement might cause the file to leap up at him.

"Have you read it?" John asked quietly.

"No." Sherlock shook his head. "I was thinking."

"About?"

"You," Sherlock replied honestly.

"I'm not made of glass," John muttered, taking a step forward. "I can manage this."

"She had a baby at home."

John froze for a fraction of a second, then glared fiercely at him. "No, she didn't."

"How do you know that?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head curiously.

"I know you," John huffed, "and I know when you're lying," he added, walking into the kitchen. "And I especially know when you're lying to provoke a reaction to prove your point," he said in a waspish tone as he dumped his things in their room.

That was unfortunate. Sherlock stared at the file for a moment. "It could be true," he called back.

"No, it couldn't, or else you wouldn't have used it," John replied, his voice still muffled by the distance.

Sherlock twisted the folder around in his hands as he sat, frowning. "How long have you been able to spot when I'm lying?" he asked, placing the file on the table again.

John appeared and sat opposite him. "A while," he said evasively.

Put out, Sherlock settled back in the chair and observed the way John braced himself before reaching forward with deliberate movements and picking the file up. There was a flicker of a glance in Sherlock's direction, as if daring him to say anything.

"You don't always know when I'm lying," Sherlock muttered.

An almost smile tugged at John's lips. "No," he agreed, "but I can usually tell when you're trying to distract me."

Accepting the pointed comment, Sherlock tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. "Do you wish me to continue?" he asked plainly.

John managed a smile at that. "I'm fine," he said with a little too much earnestness in his voice to be believed.

It was almost possible to read what the file said from John's expressions. Logic dictated that Simone's (or Lianne's, as he supposed she should be called) folder should begin with her early history, and John's jaw remained tightly clenched for the first few minutes of reading. A bad childhood if his sympathetic wince was anything to go by…probably worse than John's from the way John sucked in a breath at one point. She'd been abused or deprived in some way – that was a typical background for agents, as it ensured high pain threshold and less of an enquiry should a mission go wrong, as indeed it had.

John had believed that she had originated from Eastbourne, as reported on the news, but it had been part of her cover identity - which begged an interesting question as to which identity Moriarty would have used in this game. It seemed more likely that Moriarty would have wanted to draw Sherlock's attention by creating a mystery, but it was hard to tell which identity Moriarty would have thought more interesting to play with.

And just how much Moriarty had known about her true identity…

Perhaps the riddle was here, deciding which path to follow. Making a choice at the very start, taking a gamble.

It would probably amuse Moriarty to force Sherlock into such a decision.

Ah, a military background! Sherlock couldn't miss the way John relaxed slightly and the way his eyes sped over the words with ease and familiarity. He was reading briefings, military jargon, and Sherlock was willing to bet his current experiment that if he asked John a question the reply would be clipped and brisk, using broken sentences and quick, clear vocabulary.

Military…if Moriarty had known that, he might have used her original identity as it would form some link with John.

She would have been discharged in some way, or seduced out by the government in some form. The twitch of disapproval in John's nose told Sherlock it was the latter.

Then the reading slowed as John was faced with governmental reports of a different nature. Training would mean John would read it all properly, whereas most people's eyes would glaze over and they would start to skim.

Not his soldier.

It took almost sixteen minutes for John to start skipping as a thought suddenly occurred to him.

"Ireland," Sherlock said into the heavy silence that had permeated the flat. "I met her in Ireland."

John looked up sharply, his mouth opened to question how Sherlock had known what he was looking for. But looking up seemed to break the spell and John ended up just tossing the whole folder back on the table and leaned forward, looking unsure.

"What was her military history?" Sherlock asked after a moment.

"I thought you said you hadn't read it?" John muttered.

"I haven't, you have. Hence the question."

John looked confused at that, but seemed to shake it off. "Pretty standard," he said, scratching at his head briefly. "She was very good with the locals, always had a knack at fitting in wherever she went. It was a skill the government wanted to use."

"Would you have crossed paths with her?" Sherlock asked.

"No." John looked utterly blindsided by the question. "Well…I never met her if that's what-"

"Could Moriarty have engineered a situation that would look as if you had?"

Comprehension dawned, sickly pale on John's face as he stared down at the closed file. "I…maybe…I'd have to compare our files."

There was a part of him that brightened at the idea of finally, finally, getting his hands on John's full files and all the reports on him, but he managed to restrain his glee at the idea. Thankfully, John still seemed distracted by the file.

Then John looked up.

He was afraid. The realisation came to Sherlock in a rush. Of course, seeing suddenly how Moriarty could link Lianne/Simone's death in a far more solid and utterly fabricated way would be a shock. John had been under the impression it would be a simple case of it looking as if he had randomly poisoned someone, but Moriarty would have put far more planning into it than that.

Mentally, Sherlock huffed; if he had known John had been labouring under that false impression, he would have gone about the whole situation very differently.

Feeling slightly panicked himself with the thought of dealing with John, afraid, Sherlock said the first thing that came into his head.

"Make me tea."

John blinked at him, startled. "What?"

"Tea, John; if I have to spot everything you missed from the file, I will need a rather serious amount of caffeine."

Dazed, John nodded and stood.

Like hell could the man tell when he was being distracted.

Thank God.

* * *

**17****th**** April**

John's file came the following day. Sherlock suspected it was bad form to read it without John's permission so it sat, mocking him on the kitchen table, as John went for a check- up.

John came back nearly an hour after it arrived. Sherlock barely moved as John walked up the stairs and paused, before finally coming to a stop behind where Sherlock sat at the table.

"How long has it been there?"

"Fifty-three minutes," Sherlock replied.

He could feel John nod behind him. "And have you deduced anything from the cover?"

There was a definite possibility that John was mocking him. "No. Other than the last person to read it spilt coffee on a pile yours was in."

John sighed and stepped past him, sliding the file to Sherlock. "Just read the damned thing," he muttered. "Perfect strangers can and do."

Sherlock pulled it the rest of the way towards him. "You have no stipulations?"

John shrugged. "Couldn't care less," he huffed before stalking into his room.

Sherlock had the cover half open and stared at the tempting cream page beneath.

Damn it!

Sulking, he closed the file and wondered when he'd become so adept at this sentimentality business. Clearly, he couldn't open it until John calmed down and explained his issues.

Still, it didn't stop him from almost opening it five times before John came back out.

* * *

"I won the story award," Ava announced proudly as she entered.

"Fantastic," Sherlock replied monotonously as he stared at John's file. Then was very aware he was being glared at by an irate five-year-old. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you win?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know," Ava muttered. "But I did."

Sherlock swung himself out of the seat suddenly, unwilling to be found near the file again when John came upstairs. Instead he headed for his violin, intent on playing out his frustrations.

He tortured the violin for a few minutes, glaring out at the passers-by below the window. A little more relaxed, he paused and searched his mind for a composition to focus on.

"What's aboose mean?" Ava asked

"No such-" Sherlock stopped the automatic reply and spun around as he suddenly worked out what word she could be trying to pronounce.

Ava was sitting at the table with John's folder.

Open.

Darting a quick look at the door and listening intently for footsteps on the stairs, Sherlock took a step forward.

"Close that now," he said precisely.

All he got in return was a rather stubborn look as Ava jutted out her chin. "It's about my Daddy," she argued.

"Ava-" Sherlock began striding over.

But the belligerent child slid the folder off the table and hugged it to her protectively. "I want to read it," she implored sulkily, as if he were being utterly unreasonable.

_So do I!_

How was he meant to get the folder back? Ava had never been especially difficult before.

It was with a mixture of relief and trepidation that he heard John start to climb the stairs.

"She has your file and won't give it back," Sherlock announced to John as he walked in the door. He gestured fiercely with his hand at her, directing John to do something about it.

But John glared at him and looked past Sherlock to the other file still sitting on the desk. "Did you not think it might be an idea to move them?" he snapped. "Especially that one!" he added, pointing at Simone/Lianne's file.

"I wanted to talk to you about it," Sherlock muttered.

John looked like he was counting to ten mentally. After twenty seconds of silence, John turned to Ava.

"Ava, give me that now," he said, sounding almost calm.

To Sherlock's surprise, Ava seemed to waver, clearly not wanting to disobey John, but at the same time still desperately curious. "But it's a story about you," she complained, tightening her hold.

"I tell you stories about me," John replied with a faked ease. "Believe me. They're far more interesting than that file."

Ava seemed to mull that over. "What does aboose mean?" she asked. "Sherlock got weird when I asked him."

John looked lost. Utterly lost.

"Abuse," Sherlock corrected, "means getting hurt by people who aren't meant to hurt you."

It was almost funny the way John turned to him in startled surprise and his mouth gaped slightly.

Biting her lip, Ava put the file down, then flew over to John and wrapped her arms around his waist in what Sherlock assumed was meant to be a hug.

John, however, was still staring at Sherlock.

"What? She asked a few minutes ago, I had ample time to think of an explanation," Sherlock replied starting to feel uncomfortable.

"Yeah but…" John glanced down and slightly rearranged Ava. "That was…a suitable explanation."

"I've seen you do it often enough." Sherlock darted forward ad retrieved the file. "Deal with that and I will relocate these."

John raised an eyebrow and bent to pick Ava up into a proper hug.

* * *

That night, John came into the living room armed with a beer.

"Should you be drinking that?" Sherlock asked, tracking his movements.

John nodded. "Think I'm gonna need it," he muttered as he sat.

"That's probably an attitude you could have let die with your sister," Sherlock snapped.

The bottle froze halfway to John's lips and he let out a long breath before he started to chuckle darkly. "Are you trying to pick an argument?" he hissed.

"No." Unfamiliar with the frankly miserable feeling wobbling through him, Sherlock stared at the carpet.

There was a noisy sound of John taking a swig from the bottle. "Why aren't you opening my file?"

"Why don't you want me to?" Sherlock asked.

"Don't do that; don't answer my question with another question," John muttered.

Sherlock dragged his eyes from the carpet and studied the beer John had in his hand. He'd already gone through half of it. "You are uncomfortable with me reading it. That is why I haven't."

"I…" John, when Sherlock risked looking at his face, seemed stunned. "Really?"

Nodding, Sherlock looked out the window.

Glass chinked against wood as John put the bottle down and footsteps came closer. A firm kiss was pressed into Sherlock's hair and he closed his eyes in some relief.

He'd gotten it right.

John dragged the desk chair over and sat in front of him. "I…" He scratched at the back of his neck as Sherlock turned his head to look at him. "I don't know what it says," he admitted. "I don't know whether…whether it's good or bad."

Keeping eye contact with John, Sherlock reached out for the file and opened it deliberately. Over the top of what he was reading he could see John swallow nervously and reach for the beer again.

Medical history…John had glossed over the previous time he had been injured by his step family and certainly hadn't mentioned Harry's attempted suicide when he was a young teen. There was a social worker's report that supported Darren Watson's custody battle for his two children and then a psychologist's report documenting the one time the Watson siblings had turned up for a session after their father's death.

"Social worker's report?" John guessed.

Sherlock shook his head. "Psychologist's notes. Such as they were back then."

"Christ, forgot we'd even gone to that," John muttered. "Scary old bat. She wanted to blame everything on Harry's coming out. Cow."

Sherlock allowed a half-hearted smile before he refocused.

"You went into the army first," he muttered with some surprise.

John shrugged. "Yeah…came back to do uni but…" He frowned at Sherlock. "Did I never tell you that?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"I was crap!" John sighed with a self-deprecating grin. "I barely made it through basic training. But there was a guy who was a shit doctor there and I found myself thinking of the ones I'd met and how different it was when you had a good doctor on hand. So I left, went to uni, trained up and went back to it."

"You wanted to be useful," Sherlock muttered, reading the reports that matched up to what John was saying. The word "potential" had been used a lot by his trainers.

John nodded. "I needed to feel as if I was useful, as if I had some skill set. I didn't do well starting at the bottom; I felt like a burden."

"You couldn't manage that if you tried," Sherlock replied, distracted by the university transcripts and repressing the amusement at the two cautions John had received for being drunk and disorderly. "You relaxed at university," he muttered.

There was silence and Sherlock glanced up to see a blushing John Watson. "What?"

But John shook his head, looking oddly pleased. "Nothing…"

"You were cautioned?" Sherlock prodded, letting it go.

"You know medical students." John shrugged. "I vaguely remember someone wrapping my arm into a plaster cast while we were drunk. That was a bloody pain to wake up to."

"You jumped canal boats?" Sherlock blinked at the report.

John shifted. "Sort of," he said sheepishly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Angela Grayson was watching." John was almost squirming. "I couldn't back down from a bet."

"Perhaps it's good we didn't meet when we were younger," Sherlock said after giving him a disapproving look.

"Why, would I have been a bad influence?" John teased.

"We'll compare cautions sheets one day, " Sherlock sighed. "Then you can deduce who would have been the bad influence on whom."

When he looked up John was watching him fondly. "Caution sheets mean nothing," John declared suddenly. "Just means you got caught more than I did!"

Amused, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You'll lose," he warned.

"I once switched the slides on a uni lecture to cartoon sketches of porn." John took a sip.

_I once did three types of class A drugs in two nights_, Sherlock wanted to say, but he doubted it would be in the spirit of what John was saying. "I stole a cadaver," Sherlock replied instead. "My roommate was not amused."

"So did I."

Fascinated, Sherlock sat back. "You? You who refused to have heads in the fridge?"

John shrugged. "We needed something scary for Halloween!"

Sherlock scanned his face before he started to chuckle. "Did it work?"

"I don't think we really thought it through," John admitted. "We managed to get it into the hallway before rethinking the plan."

"So you didn't really steal it then," Sherlock pointed out.

"Fine, you win," John huffed.

Sherlock shook his head and started reading again. Army reports, then training again…

Everything about him stiffened with fury when he realised that one of the reports on John had been written by Moran.

_Reassigned position…great asset to my unit…proficient with weaponry…calm under fire…_

Then later, colder and without interest. It would have been easy for Moran to have caused problems for John, but he hadn't.

There were the documents detailing John's promotion, mission debriefs, medical reports. There were a few court martials that John had been involved in, including the incident involving Hammonds.

Then John had been shot. There were medical reports, psychologist's notes, honourable discharge. A brief discussion about his use to the government and an agreement to keep distant until John recovered and was bored enough to be desperate for any sort of action.

It was a slight surprise to see Mycroft had stepped in at some point. Though his name was never mentioned, Sherlock could see his fingerprints all over the situation. John would have been approached three weeks after they had moved in together but a memo simply instructed to leave John Watson alone.

After that John's name was rarely mentioned without his own. Sherlock's more delicate cases were documented as was a discussion about the security breach that could have been John's blog. To Sherlock's amazement there were screen caps and printouts of the damned thing; it seemed there had been constant checks to ensure state secrets remained secret.

There was even the report on Sherlock's guilt after the Moriarty incident, and his apparent suicide. John had been in danger of being recruited then but his status as a single parent had deterred the government once again.

"So?"

"You should read it." Sherlock closed the file up. "It appears you have been in high demand."

John pulled a face. "I meant about the link to Simone," he said, all traces of his earlier humour gone.

"There are possible links…I'll narrow it down." In truth there were nineteen possible times when John and Simone's names could have been linked.

Sherlock needed to narrow it down further.

* * *

They continued on with the file throughout the night and then into the next one, always when Ava went to bed.

By the time three nights had passed, Sherlock was quietly starting to worry.

There was far too much to work through, far too much to guess.

He hated guessing.

Especially when so much counted on getting the right answer.


	8. Chapter 7: April 19th to 21st

See! I haven't forgotten about the massive big fic that dominates my life!

Chapter Summary: Sherlock struggles to find a lead and is then distracted by John! And then gets called old!

Thank you so much to all who are continuing to read and follow and favourite and review! You're all lovely :)

* * *

Despite what John probably believed, there were many things in life that Sherlock could admit he had failed at. He had failed to be a good son; he'd seen evidence of that in both his parents' eyes often enough. He had failed to socialise with his peers (although that might have been partly their fault for not being interesting enough).); he'd failed to complete university because it had been useless, and he had failed to recognise the completely and utterly dangerous repercussions of Jim Moriarty when they had first faced each other.

With the exception of the last one, they all paled in comparison to what was happening now.

Sherlock could not find a lead.

Not one. Not even a hint or a clue. No matter how late he stayed up or how often he welcomed the dawn, he couldn't find anything. No matter how many places he went or how many people he talked to, he was no wiser regarding Moriarty's plan.

He hadn't told John. Couldn't. The idea of admitting to John that he couldn't find the lead he had promised filled Sherlock with utter dread.

The fact that he wasn't telling John made things worse because he had to act as if there wasn't a problem. John was good at reading Sherlock, better than Sherlock liked, and it was frustrating to have to relax at home as if nothing was wrong.

But then there were times when he could almost make himself believe the lie as well. Times when Ava asked him a question, curled up on his lap and looking at him with utter faith that he would answer. Times when John would lean into them and Sherlock would suddenly find himself cuddling (cuddling?) on the sofa with them like a perfectly normal group of people who shared a house.

It was confusing.

* * *

Sherlock had visited the Shakespeare Hotel more times than he would like to count in the past week. The servers were beginning to look at him as if he were mad because of the frequency at which they found him in odd places dotted around the building. He had broken into the room Simone had stayed in at least three times, wandered back of house every time he visited, and had been able to deduce within twenty seconds which locker John had used when he had worked there (the closest column to the exit, second row from the bottom - which meant not at eye level, but not so far down that John would have been forced into an uncomfortable crouch). He had examined the bar twice, the second time under the gaze of a nineteen-year-old barkeeper who seemed to think the whole thing was brilliantly funny and had a "why the hell not?" attitude that Sherlock could appreciate.

There was still nothing.

He had examined the site so thoroughly where Simone had - thankfully - taken her own life that he could recreate the location perfectly in his mind palace. He spent hours curled up in bed with John, just going over and over the scene in his mind.

Nothing.

* * *

**20****th**** April**

_Got a case – weird one. GL_

Sherlock studied the text as he leaned on the wall of the bridge, where he had been previously staring into the murky depths below.

Maybe that would be useful – something to distract him momentarily so he could return to this with fresh eyes. There was a reason Sherlock made rapid deductions at crime scenes; he of all people knew that the more you stared at something, the less likely it was you would see anything.

Flicking through his messages he hesitated at seeing the booking confirmation for the hotel room he'd booked for five days from now. When he had first suggested it he had been confident that all of this would be over with by then. Two weeks had seemed an extraordinarily long time to work out this puzzle.

If he cancelled it John would know something was wrong.

_I was looking forward to…not faking it._

John's voice echoed back to Sherlock from Valentine's Day.

For a moment Sherlock considered it; he thought about going home and telling John he had failed to find anything. John would be his usual self – he'd swallow and nod and then say something to make Sherlock feel better.

But he wouldn't sleep. He's go quiet at odd times again and, knowing John, he'd start looking into telling Lestrade everything.

Attempted murder carried a term of a few years in prison. John wouldn't serve that long, mind; Ava would be used to reduce the sentence, and John's previous record and character references would reduce it further. Not to mention the fact that Mycroft's lawyers could occasionally bend and twist the law.

Maybe under a year then, if they played the system right.

It was still unacceptable.

_Will you be home for lunch? Going out of my mind with boredom. JW_

Sherlock turned the phone over and over in his hands, staring down at the water. There had to be something he was missing…something, anything.

It was tempting to go to Mycroft and demand to be involved in Moriarty again. But it had been so quiet. As much as that fact set Sherlock's teeth on edge and made him stay wide awake most nights, it had made John sleep like an infant and no longer clutch Ava's hand when they walked outside. All the tension from February and March had bled out of him.

If this was how he had made John feel then he had some apologising to do. It was hateful having to rely on someone else, to wait and stand by the phone for snippets of information.

Sherlock hated waiting.

_If you're not coming home then eat out. Ava's making a sandwich at school today to bring home and you know how talented she is at cooking! JW_

Why on earth was she cooking a sandwich? Sherlock cut the thought off before it bounced back and forth and irritated him too much. Who knew why the school did half the things they did.

Shaking it all away, Sherlock refocused on the hotel. A break. Yes, that was what he needed. He hadn't had John completely to himself for twenty-four hours in a row in…

He'd never had John to himself for that amount of time in a solid block.

What if he couldn't find anything? This might be the only-

Sherlock refused to complete that line of thought. Doubt was the destroyer of logic, of reason, of focus. He would not fail in this. There was no reason to come up with sentimental contingency plans that would mean nothing if it all went wrong.

Sherlock looked back down at Lestrade's message.

_Send me details rather than your attempts to sensationalise cases. SH_

If it was too complicated he'd have to turn it down. There was no way he could risk his time being eaten up by a proper case.

* * *

The case was a five.

There was once a time he wouldn't have got out of bed for a five. Today though, it suited him well enough. With renewed energy, Sherlock bounded up the stairs to the flat, already feeling his mind start to whirl and work again after it had begun to stagnate with the stalemate.

"John? Did you ever go to-"

Sherlock was cut off as an eager, clever tongue slipped into his mouth and the attached body pushed him backwards against the door, effectively closing it. Hands pushed into his coat, flicked open his jacket and started on his belt.

It was a pleasant surprise.

But-

"John." Sherlock lifted his head out of John's lip range and sought mercy in the ceiling. "We agreed-"

"All clear," John muttered against his throat, yanking his shirt out of his trousers with one hand as the other hand tossed his belt to the floor.

"We said-"

"Six days ago."

Six?

Well, that was an entirely different matter then.

All thoughts of Lestrade's obvious little case gone from his mind, Sherlock dipped his mouth down and met John's lips eagerly, his own hands springing to life and roaming John's body possessively as he started to push John backwards.

"Table," he instructed.

Against him John huffed, "And ruin the great pen experiment?"

"Floor," he hissed and, without any pretence at grace or elegance, pulled John down with him.

John sounded as if he was trying not to laugh. John should not have the breath left to laugh; he should be panting and begging and writhing.

So Sherlock got to work.

It was rough and frantic and utterly without delicate touches or soft movements. Sherlock would have bruises, as would John, and there was an awkward moment where Sherlock realised that perhaps it would be better if he were on the receiving end, even though he wanted to fuck everything out of John. But then there was a wonderful, brilliant moment when John was leaning up against the back of the chair and Sherlock was trying to inhale the man's tongue into him as he ground their bodies together and clawed his free hand up John's back. A perfect second when John slammed his head backwards as his hips stuttered and he gasped out Sherlock's name and Sherlock could lick the sweat from his neck and taste skin that throbbed with a manic pulse.

Afterwards they crashed to the floor, sprawled without a care. Sherlock lay on his back, enjoying the peace in his head, stunned at how crowded and cotton-wool thick his head had become without being able to touch John.

Turning his head, he stared at John. He was lying with his arm draped over his face, which caused his back to arch slightly and presented his belly to Sherlock.

He hadn't let himself miss this, he realised, rolling over so that he was braced on top of John. John, who lifted his arm off his face, shot him a curious look and then rolled his eyes with a grin and waved him on, thudding his arm back over his face.

He had a renewed fondness for John's shoulder and the scar that spread across it. With John's weight loss it was slightly different, less tight than usual. John's ribs were also easier to find now. When Sherlock sat back a little he could make them out far more easily than before.

Sherlock threw the newest scar a filthy look for causing the said weight lossand then pulled back a little to eye up the cupboards.

"That was quick," John muttered sleepily.

"Do we have cake?"

John lowered his arm and stroked up Sherlock's side with a feather-light touch. "Huh?"

"Or biscuits?"

John looked blank. "Yeah…well…digestives…what are you asking for?" he added suspiciously.

"You." Sherlock prodded at John's side. "I can see your ribs."

John glared at him, then poked Sherlock in the side. "I can always see yours," he said with a huff. "Do you see me talking about biscuits after we've had a shag?"

"You have a different body type," Sherlock muttered.

An inscrutable look was levelled at him. For long moments the only thing that could be heard was the clock on the wall ticking away.

Then John's face lit up with laughter and Sherlock stared, part of him wanting to commit that to memory forever.

Until John spoke.

"That is quite possibly the gayest thing you have ever said to me," John cackled. "Get off, you tit!"

"That's hardly true," Sherlock muttered, sitting back on his heels as John wiggled out from under him. "I have said far more explicitly homosexual things to you."

John was still grinning. "Yeah, but you've never sounded like…" He faltered, seeming to struggle to find a reference Sherlock would know. "That doesn't matter. How the hell do you know about body types?"

"It's a descriptive device that members of the public use." Sherlock watched as John padded over, naked, to the cupboards. "I needed to be able to translate what they meant."

John stretched up to the top shelf and pulled down a packet of assorted biscuits. "Never tell my daughter these exist," he warned as he brought them back over.

"In general or just not mention they exist inside the flat?" Sherlock asked snidely.

John plopped himself down and tore open the wrappings, ignoring the comment after sticking his tongue out at Sherlock playfully. "Here's the deal then," he said as he pulled out the plastic biscuit tray. "I'll eat as many as you do."

Sherlock glared at him. "You have been spending far too much time with Mycroft," he huffed.

"Because I'm manipulating you, or is this yet another reference to your brother's sweet tooth?"

At the mention of Mycroft's dietary problems, Sherlock plucked a biscuit out. "Both," he said smugly.

John shifted so he was next to Sherlock, back against the chair back again. Staring ahead, Sherlock plucked another, very chocolate-looking biscuit up and held it in front of John's face without looking at him feeling rather amused at the situation.

John took it but made no sign that he was about to eat. His body next to Sherlock had tensed.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"I…"

Sherlock looked at John quickly, then turned in the direction John was looking.

An image of John battered at his mind again, bloody, pale, dying, as he lay against the wall-

"Eat your biscuit, John," Sherlock muttered, shaking his head to clear the image and trying to pull John's attention from the memory.

Perhaps they shouldn't do this on the kitchen floor again.

There was an obedient crunch, and Sherlock tore his eyes away to stare at the ceiling.

"Mycroft seems stressed," John said into the silence.

"Mycroft was born stressed," Sherlock replied flippantly, still staring up.

"Do you th-"

Sherlock turned and brushed his lips against John's, cutting him off. He tasted like orange and chocolate; a combination that Sherlock frowned at but let slide, given that he had selected the biscuit.

It hadn't been his intention to deepen the kiss, but Sherlock found himself with the ridiculous notion of kissing the chocolate-orange taste away until he found John underneath.

"Mm," John groaned. "I need to get dressed." He pulled back, lips bruised and pupils dilated. "I have to pick Ava up soon."

"You need to eat the biscuit," Sherlock ordered, reaching over for another.

"You eat it," John said sulkily.

"I'll eat the next one."

"Yeah, like I'm falling for that." John grinned as Sherlock climbed back onto his lap. "Seriously, I need to get dressed."

"Then eat quickly," Sherlock advised, still holding out the biscuit like a dog treat.

"No!"

"What is it parents do with stubborn children? Something about an aeroplane and a hatch?"

John reached behind Sherlock and pulled out a long chocolate finger. "What? Open the cave, the dragon's flying in," he said, dipping and curving his "dragon" chocolate finger until it rested gently against Sherlock's lips.

"Dragon?"

John shrugged. "Ava wasn't one for planes," he explained sheepishly.

Shaking his head at that disappointing bit of news, Sherlock leaned back and away from the biscuit. "Eat mine first," he said petulantly.

John sighed and then sucked the chocolate finger into his mouth in an obscene manner that he barely seemed to be aware of. "Eat your own," he suggested, pulling the biscuit back out, smooth with slick chocolate.

Sherlock stared, entranced, and realised it had been almost seven weeks since John's mouth had been on him.

That was a travesty.

Blue eyes narrowed in confusion at the look on Sherlock's face and then widened in realisation. "Shit, sorry," John muttered and then bit the chocolate finger cleanly through.

Wincing, Sherlock climbed off. "You've ruined the moment," he accused John.

"You implied I'm usually fat." John huffed from where he sat. "You ruined the moment first."

How was it these horrific waves of…sentiment…no, love, always hit at the strangest times? There was John, sitting gracelessly on the floor with half a chocolate finger in his mouth as he fumbled around for his phone in the pocket of his discarded jeans, his short hair ruffled and cheeks still flushed, and all Sherlock could think about was how much he wanted to bar the door and just sit, force-feeding John chocolate biscuits for the rest of the day and listening to him laugh.

If he couldn't find a lead then there was a very good possibility that John wouldn't be around for months, years maybe. It would be cold and lifeless and no one would call him a "nutter" and-

"You okay?" John asked, looking up with concern.

Sherlock nodded sharply. "Yes," he said in a clipped voice.

He needed to find that fucking lead.

* * *

That night he watched John sleep for hours and left before he woke.

* * *

**April 21****st**

John liked the cinema. There was no way Sherlock was going to even try to pretend that he would enjoy a night out at one of those places. It wasn't that he disliked films. It was more that talking throughout a film was frowned on, and there were always so many mistakes to spot. He needed a different activity.

Dinner. They would have to eat; John certainly would have to eat. There was a good Indian across from the hotel that did excellent food and served John's favourite brand of beer.

"What are you doing?" a little voice asked.

"Planning," Sherlock replied, opening an eye to look at Ava. "What are you doing?"

Ava looked around cautiously. "Talking to you," she replied after a moment, stepping forward. "What are you planning?"

"My trip with your father." Sherlock sat up and gestured with his finger for Ava to turn around. "Must you always mess your hair up at night?" he asked, shaking his head as he picked up the brush from the table and started to comb her hair.

"I can't help it. I'm asleep," Ava said, sounding a little put out. "What are you and Daddy going to do?" she asked.

"Spend time together."

"You always spend time together," Ava whined, "especially when I'm at school. I want to come."

No. No, he loved Ava, but no.

Sherlock froze in mid-brush and examined how easily that thought had happened. It was becoming quite worrying, the ease with which he could think such sentimental things about John and Ava now.

"You'd be bored," he said, starting to brush again.

"No I wouldn't," Ava argued stubbornly. "I'll be really, really good."

Where the hell was John?

"And quiet," she added in a pleading tone, turning to him. "I promise. I won't be naughty."

"No…" He looked at the door beseechingly. "It…we'll be spending the day in bed," he announced suddenly.

"Are you sick?" Ava asked, sounding worried.

"No. Just, very tired."

"Is that 'casue you're old?" Ava asked matter-of-factly.

He was not old! Glaring at Ava, he handed her the brush. "You are old enough to do your own hair," Sherlock announced haughtily.

Ava looked at him and then nodded thoughtfully as she seemed to reach some conclusion.

"I am not old," Sherlock complained to John when he walked in two minutes later.

"Noted," John said, looking relatively unfazed. "But you are much older than five."

Ava waved the brush around. "That's not what Mycroft said when he came over," she pointed out.

"Either I am too old, or I'm a child. I cannot be both," Sherlock muttered.

"Then you're old and Mycroft's wrong," Ava announced happily.

Sherlock rolled back down to the sofa and sulked.

* * *

Ava and John were doing something upstairs that involved rather a lot of noise. Staring at the ceiling Sherlock twisted his phone in his hand, thinking.

He couldn't give this up. There was no way he would managed to cope without John, without Ava. Not now that he had experienced it.

And the idea of John's shoulders tensing up again, or him becoming withdrawn and quiet as he worried-

That wasn't happening.

On the arm of the chair Sherlock's notes balanced precariously for Lestrade's case. All that was needed was to find the ring from the sister in law and the case would be wrapped up neatly; everything explained in a manner that most of the public would understand.

Anderson might need small, slow words.

In amongst the banging of Ava and John upstairs, Sherlock tapped at his phone screen thoughtfully.

It would mean deceiving John. Lying.

Sherlock pressed send.

_Need more time, look at the brother in law – he might be hiding something._

And, as he stood, he dismissed thoughts of how wretched an innocent man's life was about to be for the next ten hours or so.

* * *

Next Chapter: John and Sherlock go away for the day and then John gets a rather strange phone call from Ava...something about a parents evening... :P


	9. Chapter 8: April 25th

Hi!

So sorry aboutthe delay - completely my fault - I was enjoying writing something a bit different for a change - something less complex which was a lovely break. I also had a bit of a battle to sit down and write this because I'm struggling with April/May at the moment so unusually I haven't been desperate to write these bits!

But after next chapter there will be a few weeks time skip and enthusiasm will be back! Promise :)

Hope you all enjoy :)

* * *

**Chapter Summary**: John and Sherlock go away but Ava phones with a bit of news...

Note: This chapter links in with PwL's "Parents Evening". This is more smutty and less amusing though!

* * *

**Wednesday 25th April**

"I still can't get over it," John said as they stood in the lift. "Literally, minutes to spare and you solve the case." He flashed Sherlock a grin. "Have you been watching some of those action films again, where they pick the right wire with seconds to go?"

Sherlock pressed the button and stepped back. "I thought you always said I had terrible timing," he replied lightly, folding his hands behind him.

"Not today." Sherlock watched John look out through the glass walls of the lift. "Can we afford this?" John asked doubtfully.

"The owner owes me a favour," Sherlock replied evenly. "Reduced rate."

That small, shy smile appeared again, the one that was so rare. "This is amazing." John leaned close. "The bloke just took our bags upstairs." He looked bewildered by the idea.

"You have stayed at a hotel before, John." Sherlock was amused despite himself.

"Yeah, but usually they follow you with the bag and it's weird. I can carry my own bag! But this…" John shifted experimentally in the space. "God, rich people must be lazy," he said, shaking his head reproachfully.

"Have you met Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.

Seconds later John laughed and Sherlock smiled, then tugged at John as the lift doors opened.

John wouldn't stop turning to look about him, a habit that he must have picked up from Sherlock at some point because he never used to do it.

_Wrong; John focuses on necessary things, he always knows where the exits are and where the focus point is,_ Sherlock corrected himself. If John were looking around at the tables and fixtures it meant…

…it meant he was relaxed.

Pleased, Sherlock swiped the key card into the door and opened it.

"Of course you can do that easily," John muttered as they walked in. "That's it; you are dealing with the chip and pin machines from now on."

Bags in the bedroom, room cleaned…immaculate, thankfully, or Sherlock knew it would distract him.

"Mm, of course," he said patronisingly and hooked a Do Not Disturb sign on the door as he closed it, knowing that John was unlikely to notice as he was too busy gawping at the room.

"Reduced rate?" John checked again.

"I told you." Sherlock wrapped his arms around John to start undoing his belt. "I've taken care of it."

John relaxed against him with utter trust. "Maybe we should unpack first."

"Why?" Sherlock started to taste the soft skin under John's ear.

"Because…we need what's in the bags." John seemed to be swallowing.

"Things?" Sherlock queried. "No," he decided, "we don't need bags for that, John." And with that he dug into his coat pocket and placed a bottle of lube on the table.

"You had that in your pocket the whole way here?"

"You have no idea the things I have in my pocket half the time."

John picked up the lube in a manner that wasn't as nonchalant as he was probably going for. "And you have no idea how kinky that sounds," he said mildly.

"I think I do."

* * *

Slow.

Slow was brilliant. Slow was what they needed now.

Blood red crimson was John's colour, Sherlock decided as he lay stretched out on the bed. It turned John's hair to gold and suited the slight bronze of his skin. It made him look warm and decadent, like a fine whiskey that needed to be savoured.

It might be prudent to buy similar bed linen for their own bed.

Mouthing at John's clenched fingers as they dug into the bed sheets, Sherlock looked up at his lover, strained and gasping from Sherlock's fingers. John let out a strangled whimper as Sherlock flexed and added another digit, then moved up his arm with careful, lazy kisses until he was level with John again.

Darkened eyes met his as John swallowed, still too quiet for Sherlock's liking. "Tease," John whispered, looking as if just the word had been more than he could manage.

"If you like," Sherlock offered wickedly and ducked down again.

"Jesus," John whimpered, sounding half strangled. "I…you…"

Sucking him down, Sherlock smiled and deliberately pulled back a little, teasing the sensitive glans as he raised an inquisitive eyebrow at John.

John just shut his eyes and twisted his head to one side, straining.

Cataloguing John's responses was addictive. He was more sensitive now than he had been a month and a half ago, which was probably an indication of how much more relaxed he felt about being in bed with Sherlock.

Continuing his way down, Sherlock adjusted his position in order to hook John's legs over his shoulders as he licked and sucked.

It was only when his tongue joined his fingers that John yelped and went rigid.

"Whoa." John scrambled up the bed with remarkable speed for someone who had been so close to orgasm. "What are you doing?" he asked in a panic.

"How did you survive in the army without hearing about rimming?" Sherlock asked, flexing his fingers, which had narrowly escaped being broken by John's hasty retreat.

"No, I know what…" John shifted and squirmed. "I just…why?"

"I am not asking for reciprocation." Sherlock reached out for one of John's ankles and gave it a tug, which sent John back down the bed to him.

"But-" John looked bewildered. "You..." He trailed off, looking utterly lost.

"You aren't going to relax now, are you?" Sherlock huffed.

"No, I'll get there." John screwed up his face as if concentrating. "I just wasn't expecting it."

Accepting that, Sherlock slid his fingers in again and watched John's eyes glaze slightly. "I could do this for hours," he murmured into John's ear. "I'd could keep you edging for hours."

John whimpered.

"Assuming you know what that is."

Under him John gave a choked laugh. "I'm not thick," he muttered, thrusting to meet Sherlock's fingers. "Please," he whispered turning to fasten his lips to Sherlock's mouth.

It was probably best to not remind John of where his mouth had just been, given his earlier reaction.

When he finally slid into John it was glorious relief.

And different.

Confused, Sherlock looked down at where their bodies joined, shaking the thoughts away. Thoughts that seemed overly sentimental and strange.

"Hey?" John cupped his chin and raised his gaze. "You okay?"

Shakily, Sherlock nodded and dipped his head to rest in the crevice of shoulder and shin beneath him, kissing at the pulse beating resolutely there.

Slow was terrifying sometimes.

* * *

It was half past two in the afternoon and Sherlock was relatively sure he wasn't going to move.

Ever again.

"Do you think I'm that naïve?"

Without opening his eyes, Sherlock tightened his mouth. "I'm enjoying the peace and quiet."

Next to him John snorted. "Yeah, right."

"You're the one who complains I never enjoy my afterglow."

"Fine, we'll swap."

Next to him the bed bounced as John moved (where the hell had he found this energy?) and started nuzzling his stomach.

What was John complaining about? It was very relaxing. A bit like a light massage.

Then his leg was grabbed and moved into an awkward position. "What's this?"

"Leg," Sherlock replied.

"No…the scar."

"A scar."

"Sherlock, I swear I will remember this conversation the next time you do this to me."

Mentally, Sherlock ran through his index of the markings of John's body and opened his eyes when he realised there were still two he wanted clarification on.

John was pointing at a knife wound made three years ago.

"It's a stab wound."

John rolled his eyes. "I can see that." He wriggled down to study it. "How did you get it? And don't you dare say from a knife," John added quickly.

"I was running. They caught me going over the fence."

Gentle, steady hands traced the scar. "Christ, you were lucky. A few centimetres the other way and we wouldn't be having this conversation," John said quietly.

"Quite," Sherlock agreed then blinked as John pressed a careful kiss to it.

"There." John grinned. "All better."

"You do not have magic lips," Sherlock said blankly.

"That's not what you said earlier." John grinned even more broadly.

* * *

He must have dozed off, because when he next opened his eyes he was staring at John's feet.

Confused, he sat up slowly and smiled at the sight of John stretched out on the bed on his front, doing the crossword puzzle, naked.

Delighted, Sherlock bent to kiss at John's ankle, which earned him a hiss of laughter.

"Ticklish," John complained, moving his foot away.

Skimming a hand up his legs, pausing to admire his arse, then skimming again up John's back, Sherlock moved until he was peering over John's shoulder.

And dropped his hands back to John's arse again.

"I'm doing the crossword," John muttered, grinning.

"I won't disturb you then." Sherlock nipped at his neck and delved his fingers in.

"Dick," John gasped, arching.

"As you wish."

* * *

There was an annoying noise ruining his quiet time.

"John."

"Mmm?"

"Stop that sound."

"You stop it."

"Not moving."

"It's closer to you."

"I just fucked you twice and frankly you contributed very little to the endeavour. You get it."

That earned him an elbow in the stomach, but all the same John rolled over and reached across Sherlock to answer his mobile phone.

"As you're agreeing so readily, I expect a lot more effort from you in ten minutes," Sherlock added, nuzzling into his pillow.

John laughed. "I'll be lucky if you move again in ten hours," he said as he pressed the call button. "Did you have a good day?" he asked, rolling back onto his side of the bed.

Ava.

Sherlock shifted to watch John's face as he talked to her.

"I always know when it's you," John teased with an easy smile down the phone as he stretched, then pulled a face and met Sherlock's eyes with a glare. "You're ruining my reputation with my daughter," he informed Sherlock.

Oh yes, as if the caller ID wouldn't one day inform Ava how John could tell it was her when she rang.

It was almost four o'clock, then, if Ava was calling, which meant they could have a long shower before-

"What?" John sounded flustered and Sherlock refocused his attention.

"I...Jesus, what?"

Sherlock sat up, worried, and then John's entire posture relaxed in sheer relief. "Oh, thank God for that...I...I have no idea actually." John glanced at Sherlock with a tiny smile. "Sherlock's in charge of it all," John added, sounding far too happy with the idea.

He should ensure there were those disgusting lemon sweets after the meal. John seemed to love them for some unknown reason.

"I...do we have plans tonight?" John asked, turning to him.

"No."

"What?" John looked a little confused by that answer and perhaps a little disappointed.

"I'm not telling you," Sherlock clarified.

"Oh, don't be childish," John complained.

"John, do you honestly think I brought you here just to have continuous sex?"

John tilted his head at that. "No?"

Amused, Sherlock laughed and turned onto his back.

"Fine." John sounded as if he were trying not to laugh as he turned back to the phone. "Yes, it appears we do," he said.

Then blinked and pulled the phone away to stare at it.

"What?"

John shrugged. "Do you ever get the feeling that you have no idea what goes through a female's head?" he asked with a sigh. "I swear the older Ava gets, the worse I get at understanding her.

"You never were that gifted with understanding the female psyche," Sherlock pointed out.

But John was still frowning at the phone, clearly somewhat concerned despite his joking.

The phone rang again.

John answered it immediately. "Are you all right?" He stood up and shrugged into one of the hotel robes.

Then rolled his eyes and tapped his foot.

Sensing that this was not going to end well, Sherlock sat up and glared at the door.

"A letter? What letter?" John asked, sounding as if he was struggling to keep up with whatever Ava was saying.

With narrowed eyes Sherlock slowly turned to look at their still unpacked bags.

"Parents' evening?" John sounded pleased, probably at making out what Ava was talking about. "I was wondering when that would be this year. What day is it?"

That idiot. Sherlock slid off the bed and picked up a leaflet for the hotel that they had tossed to the floor at some point. Turning it, he scanned the refund policy.

"Wednesday the..." John stretched for a pen.

Any minute now he would realise.

"The 25th," John said, still sounding oblivious, which made Sherlock glare at the ceiling.

"Wait_..."_ John sounded suspicious.

Finally. If this was what had become of John's deductive ability then Sherlock needed to drag him to the next twenty crime scenes immediately.

"Ava?" Sherlock turned, surprised by the underlying anger in John's voice. "Has Mrs Hudson made you phone because parents' evening is today?"

Whatever Ava's reply was it didn't improve John's mood. "How long have you known about it?" he demanded, his back straightening as if he were dressing down a soldier.

"Two weeks!" John exploded.

Sherlock blinked, taken aback by John's reaction.

"My day in..." John shook away whatever Ava had just said. "What time is it on to?" Then dragged in an angry breath. "AVA!"

"John," Sherlock said softly.

John made a sharp gesture with his hand. "Put Mrs Hudson on," he demanded.

"Why the hell did she not say anything?" John exploded a few seconds later. "No! I don't…Well, it's too late now, isn't it?"

"John-"

Again the hand. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at it, tempted to rap John with his knuckles.

"Can _you_ go?" John asked in a rather unpolite voice.

Enough. Sherlock jabbed a finger in John's non-scarred side and yanked the phone from John's opposite hand when he winced and curled slightly.

"John will call you back," Sherlock informed Mrs Hudson as he ended the call.

"I don't believe it." John was shaking his head. "Two weeks she'd had that letter! What was she thinking?"

"We're packed."

John jolted. "What?"

Sherlock waved a hand at the bags and John followed his hand blankly.

"Sherlock, I have no idea how much money or time you spent on this, but it's a kids' parents' evening. I can miss it."

"You don't want to though," Sherlock said calmly. "You couldn't go last year."

John wouldn't meet his gaze. "And she hasn't turned out too badly yet…" He seemed to consider that. "Well…" he muttered, shaking his head again.

"John-"

"Look, it's done now." John scraped a hand through his hair. "It happens."

Sherlock watched John pad towards the fridge.

"I want to go."

The words slipped out before he could think about them. They seemed to have the power to freeze John where he stood.

Damn it.

Sherlock floundered for some way to explain it. Something that would sound logical.

He became more and more aware of John looking at him and braced himself as the door of the mini fridge at the side of the bedroom shut.

"You want to go?"

He hated that tone of John's; that utterly unreadable tone. It was infuriatingly hard to analyse.

Horrendously uncomfortable, Sherlock started to fiddle with the bed sheets (as if that wouldn't be a giveaway). "You'll only be distracted for the rest of the night," he said to the sheets in a very precise tone.

John caught his hand.

They stood like that until Sherlock wanted to duck away. If this was how most people felt when he looked at them then he could understand some of the looks he occasionally got.

"Why haven't you said anything?" John breathed.

"She's your daughter, John. You are the primary caregiver."

Careful hands guided him to sit down as John stood in front of him. "I thought you were backing off because you'd been driven mad by her when I was in hospital."

Sherlock shook his head fractionally. "I…I do not wish to interfere." He swallowed.

John looked terribly nervous all of a sudden. "I'm going to ask you a question and I need to tell me if you like the sound of it or not."

"The sound of it?" Sherlock repeated blankly.

John nodded. "I like it," John said hesitantly, "but…it's fine if you don't-"

"Ask." Sherlock studied John carefully, trying to work out what the question would be.

And what the hell he meant by 'the sound of it'.

"Okay…" John took a deep, steeling breath. "Would you like to go to our daughter's parents' evening?"

"Yes, I told you."

John's gaped at him. "Are you being deliberately obtuse?" he asked, sounding peeved.

"I-"

_Our daughter's_

Sherlock's jaw dropped.

* * *

"You're sure?"

"Yes." John sounded already bored with the question as they sat on the train.

"But you would still make all the important decisions-"

"No," John replied in the same monotonous tone.

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the table. "You are trusting me-"

"Yes." John reached for a newspaper.

"Are you even listening now?"

"No."

Sherlock drummed a bit faster. "So you would have no problem if I text Mycroft to check up on…her."

He couldn't say the words. The ones that John used. It was as if saying them might make John suddenly see reason again.

Which was utterly foolish and yet still the words refused to come.

"Go for it." John scanned the paper.

_You had better have employed a useful driver when picking her up. If there is one single security breach I will ruin your next election. SH_

_You're being over-zealous in your parenting technique. Do relax a little. MH_

Sherlock threw the phone on the table. "You texted him."

John nodded. "Yes. If it helps he didn't seem to manage a reply for about fifteen minutes."

It helped a little.

* * *

Inside the classroom was very bright. Pale blue walls were covered with 'art work' that looked more like smears of paint and hesitant writing in Sherlock's opinion.

There were only a few parents left with their children.

And Mycroft with…Ava.

They were both looking at something on the wall. His brother seemed unusually focused…though granted, Sherlock had never seen Mycroft view Year One art work before, but something had caught his attention.

And Ava was relaxing, as if starting to come out of a sulk.

"So…" John murmured behind him, "you know at some point you are going to have to do this with our daughter."

John seemed to delight in using the phrase as often as possible.

"Do what?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the flutter.

"You are in so much trouble," John announced in a rather strict voice.

Oh, that! Curious, Sherlock watched John scold, half an eye on the strung up craft work that was inexpertly balanced around the classroom.

Amusingly, Ava seemed to let the tone sail right over her head. "You came," she said with a sweet smile.

"Ava..." John tried again. "We could have rearranged the hotel for another night." He placed his hands on his hips.

"So you didn't have to go away tonight?" Ava asked, tilting her head.

"No," John said, sounding so firmly annoyed that Sherlock glanced at him.

"Ohh." Ava nodded with dawning comprehension, then flashed a pleased smile. "That's good then."

"No." John sounded taken aback and looked at Sherlock.

"Impressive," Sherlock muttered sarcastically under his breath and John sighed in defeat. "This is very bright," Sherlock added in a much louder tone for Ava to hear. "And the man over there would far rather be out at the bar he just came from-"

"Not the right place," John hissed, cutting Sherlock off. "Thank you for doing this, Mycroft, I'm sure you're busy-"

"Yes. Haven't you got more trains to delay?" Sherlock added snidely as he traced a finger over Ava's chair, judging the distance to the board and window.

There were better seats. Perhaps they could ask to have her moved to-

"I thought I might see it through to the bitter end, actually," Mycroft said, taking a seat. "If she isn't going to be too long," he added, inclining his head at the teacher.

"What?" Sherlock asked, snapping his head up, horrified, and drew in a breath to snap at Mycroft.

"Well, you're more than welcome-" John started to say.

"John!" Sherlock said with disbelief, staring at his partner and trying to shoot him a pointed look.

"Problem?" Mycroft drawled from behind Sherlock. Just the tone of it made Sherlock whirl around as John bent slightly to listen to something Ava was saying.

"Then we'll have to go and take a proper look." John smiled down at her and picked her up with ease. "If you two could try not to kill each other in the next five minutes I would appreciate it." He flung the reproach over his shoulder as he wandered off to another part of the classroom.

"So…" Mycroft looked down at him. "Domestic life appears to agree with you."

"Mock." Sherlock glared at the window. "Get it done with."

"You suggested I should be described as smart?" Mycroft nodded towards the wall.

It was the picture. The original was in his wallet, despite the risk it presented. The one that Sherlock hadn't been able to respond to.

"It was ironic."

"And I assume labeling you as 'fun' was being polite."

Sherlock glared. "How would you know what fun was?"

Mycroft shot him a filthy look. "No, I'm too busy cleaning up your-" Then miraculously, he broke himself off. "I apologise, that was uncalled for."

The world was going to hell.

* * *

The actual parents' evening meeting (apparently renamed parent, Mycroft and…almost parent's evening) started off well. Mycroft revealed just what a nosy busybody he could be, though Sherlock felt a touch of amusement when he pictured the face of the poor minion sent to trawl through primary school records.

And the teacher sided with him over John. That had been an unexpected bonus.

All in all it was going very well until extra-curricular activities came up.

Ava pooh-poohed ballet lessons and Sherlock pooh-poohed riding lessons, which of course meant that Mycroft had to try and champion the idea.

John, however, reacted as if someone had suggested Ava swim with sharks when the idea of piano lessons came up.

"Thank you for your suggestions," he said, standing up. "They were very helpful."

Sherlock watched, stunned, as John maneouvered Ava out of the chair in quick, precise motions, as if he were in charge of some great escape plan. Feeling a little lost, Sherlock looked at the teacher.

Who was looking at both of them, seeming just as confused. "I hadn't finished-"

"It's late." John started to steer Ava out the door. "Thank you for your time," he said with a polite nod.

By the time Sherlock followed him out, John had disappeared in a taxi.

Piano lessons? What on earth did John have against piano lessons?

Mycroft wandered out about five minutes later as Sherlock frowned at the road. "You should encourage her to speak Spanish." Mycroft put up his umbrella against the drizzle. "She'll start learning a few basic words next year; you know how important languages are."

"You are not meant to continue it without us," Sherlock muttered, mind racing.

"You haven't worked it out yet, have you?" Mycroft asked.

Oh God, he knew what John's problem was. Sherlock hovered, trying to work out if it was worth swallowing his pride and asking.

"Tell me what you know about Ava's father." Mycroft's car drew up.

"That could take a very long time," Sherlock snapped.

"What do you know of her mother?"

"Harry?" Sherlock sneered. "Useless-"

"What do you know of her father?"

This time the question sank in, and Sherlock closed his eyes in realisation.

"Indeed." Mycroft climbed in the car. "Do you want a lift?"

Sherlock shook his head.

He needed to think very carefully about how to approach this. John had just let Sherlock in as another…caregiver…and Sherlock needed to tread very carefully because in all the time they'd been together John had never once talked about Ava's biological father.

* * *

Ta-dah! Thank you very much to Swissmiss for editing this and for being so wonderfully patient :)


	10. Chapter 9: April 25th to May 2nd

**So I owe you all a huge massive apology for being so late in posting this! I went off and wrote another fic over the summer that was meant to be light hearted and ended up being over 100,000 words and rather angsty towards the end! Still, it's finished now so I can go back to posting this!**

**As a recap - last chapter was Parents Evening. John had just asked if Sherlock would like to have a far more active role in Ava's life and then had a strange reaction to the mention of piano lessons. **

**Thank you to everyone who has been following this still and the sweet few that PM'd me about the story! And a huge thank you to the ever patient swissmiss for putting up with my technology fail for the past few days and for betaing this still!**

* * *

**25th April**

There was only a faint light coming from the window. Staring up at it, Sherlock tapped his foot on the pavement, trying to work out his next move.

This was dangerous ground. John had only just allowed Sherlock to participate in a parental role and to now battle with the issue of the biological father…there was scope for missteps.

He hated that.

Slowly Sherlock opened the door, being sure to make enough noise that John would easily hear and be ready for him. The stairs creaked under his feet, announcing every move he made.

The door was slightly ajar and Sherlock slowly pushed it open.

John was seated in Sherlock's chair, the reading lamp the only light source in the room. Ava was asleep in his lap with one of John's arms supporting her. With the other hand he rubbed at his eyes.

"You all right?" Sherlock asked from the doorway.

"Sorry." John seemed to shake himself and his voice sounded a little gruff. "I…I didn't mean to leave you there."

Sherlock considered that as he stepped into the room. "I managed," he said, not exactly sure why John was apologising for that. "Mycroft left very quickly so it was bearable."

The smile flashed and then vanished as if it had never existed. "That's good," John said, letting out a slow breath.

The arm around Ava wasn't squeezing hard but it was utterly rigid, as if John half expected someone to take her away from him. A glance at John confirmed that somehow Sherlock was going to have to coax the information out of him without irritating or upsetting him further.

"You must have been pleased," Sherlock said, edging closer. "To have received such a glowing report for Ava."

"Were you?" John suddenly seemed to snap his attention to Sherlock in a rather bewildering manner. "Pleased?"

"Yes" - and he had been - "but then I have made very little contribution so far."

John seemed to be searching for something in his face. "You help her with her homework, you endlessly correct her grammar and encourage her curiosity-"

Sherlock frowned. "Yes, but in the fifty-seven and a half months she's been alive, I have been present for six and a half. It's hardly a grand input."

"You worked it out?"

"It's simple mathematics." Sherlock dismissed the issue. "In a few years she'd be able to make the calculation herself."

The light seemed to play shadows onto John's face, illuminating his features in a haunting fashion as he sat very still.

"Are you going to tell me what the problem with piano lessons was?" Sherlock asked into the chasm of silence that was forming between them.

The slight curl of the lips was worrying. "Was it that obvious?" John asked, narrowing his gaze on the glass opposite.

"John-"

"I don't want to discuss it." The tone was formidable, and Sherlock sighed inwardly before reaching back and dragging what was usually John's chair forward and sitting on it. John watched without comment.

"Did Harry ever date a pianist?"

There. The words were out there. John's shut his eyes as if to hide from answering the question.

The silence was confirmation enough.

Ava's biological father had played the piano, and clearly John hated the reminder.

Staring at Ava, curled into John with such ease, Sherlock inwardly scrabbled for something, anything to say to make it better. Part of him, a larger part than he would own up to, was panicking at the idea that maybe John just wanted her all to himself and was already regretting the earlier offer.

_No. Logically, think logically._

_Biological father. Why would John be threatened by that?_

Sherlock looked down at his fingers, trying to find an answer that would help him. This was not a secret to solve or to pry out of John; this was sheer sentiment and utterly dangerous.

Biology: the familial bond that plagued him and meant he was bound to Mycroft no matter how many times he had tried to embarrass his brother professionally. For whatever reason, their ties had meant that Mycroft never stayed away for long, never stopped peering over his shoulder with that disapproving frown.

An image of Mycroft, fourteen years old and sour faced, hit Sherlock. There was such a clear memory of his brother's filthy, jealous look as their mother praised Sherlock's ability with the violin in a far more genuine tone than she'd used for Mycroft's attempts at instrumental endeavours that he almost smiled at how young Mycroft had been and how similar their frown could be.

"Do you know the reason I play the violin every time Mycroft is here?" Sherlock asked, mentally pulling away from the envious look in Mycroft's eyes (a look that Sherlock had rarely ever seen and coveted far more than was probably considered 'good').

"To drown out his scolding?" John asked, sounding apathetic

_Well, yes. _

"Because he can't. He has no musical ability whatsoever. He was so utterly jealous that I could play without effort." Sherlock said the words carefully, eager to ensure John understood the point he was making. As a doctor John must surely have heard the nature/nurture debate, as well as studied the way genes fluctuated throughout the generations. Had John biologically fathered Ava she still might have ended up with musical talent.

The look in John's eyes told Sherlock he understood the point, but his lips were still firm, his grip on Ava still rigid. "That doesn't help in any way," he confessed, sounding annoyed with himself. "The point is...I hate being reminded."

"I can play the piano," Sherlock offered, testing John.

"Why am I not surprised?" John sighed, missing the point.

"What if it was just Ava and I sharing an interest?" It was irritating having to put it into more obvious words; John had been getting so good at understanding implied conversations.

Something in Sherlock sank when John shifted, seeming miles away

"Not yet," John said eventually. "Maybe...just not yet."

Because he was too caught up on this biological parent issue or because he didn't want Sherlock involved? Silently, Sherlock sat back, studying John, searching for a clue, a hint as to what John was thinking.

It was impossible. His own nerves on the subject disrupted Sherlock's ability to see what was actually was there, blinding him with what he both hoped and feared he would see.

He needed to ask the question. But the silence was like a thick cloth between them and it was hard to know where to start, or even if he should.

"Our conversation earlier," Sherlock said, suddenly looking away, hating the way his mind scrambled to work out what John was thinking. "It…it's fine."

John stirred, as if he'd been half asleep. "Hmm?"

"The conversation at the hotel. If you are no longer willing…it's understandable."

"What con-?" John seemed to suddenly wake up and looked down at Ava, then closed his eyes.

"Sherlock…" John licked his lips. "I…" He stood suddenly, shifting Ava in his arms to hold her steady, and then transferred her to Sherlock, who took her a little more eagerly than he would like to admit. "I need a drink," John muttered. "Put her to bed for me?" he asked as he walked into the kitchen.

"That's your job," Sherlock couldn't help muttering, tightening his grip on Ava all the same.

"Just…we'll talk in a bit. Just let me have a few minutes."

* * *

Ava was half asleep as he changed her into her pajamas. Her usually bright, wide eyes struggled to stay open and she kept leaning her head into him as he worked quickly, as if she were eager for any surface to fall asleep on.

It was hard to quantify just how much he felt for this tiny little thing that was slowly destroying his life as it had been.

* * *

John was at the table when he came back downstairs, elbows on the table and hands almost clasped in a prayer position, his thumbs cupping his chin.

"Long enough?" Sherlock asked.

Turning his head a little, John almost smiled and looked opposite him again. Taking the hint, Sherlock sat in the chair John was looking at.

Worryingly, John seemed to be steeling himself for something.

"I…there are going to be teething issues with this," John said slowly. "I can't just stop being a single parent overnight."

Thank you! The sheer relief that Sherlock felt was strangely overwhelming. He forced himself to just nod, as if what John had said was of little consequence.

"Her…the biological father is a concert pianist." John's hand clenched a little. "He was married and Harry was…" He looked as if he was trying to keep himself calm. "A bet. To turn the lesbian."

That was rather unexpected.

"I met him. Twice. Once before Ava was born and then again after Harry… He knows about Ava. He knows everything. The fake name on the birth certificate, the forgery, the fact that Harry is dead…the fact that if he wanted her I wouldn't have a fucking leg to stand on."

"But he doesn't?"

"No." John seemed torn between bewilderment and fury at that fact. "He has children already."

"With his wife?"

"No." John sneered. "With various bets and one nights. What's another child, right? Especially another girl."

"Then what's the problem?"

John stared at him in disbelief. "What's the problem? What if he changed his mind on whim? What if-"

"I understand that problem," Sherlock hissed, "I meant what was your issue this evening?"

John looked at him as if he were mad. "That is the damned problem! The damned fact remains, Sherlock, that no matter what I do, how I feel... I am not her father!"

Ridiculous, idiotic, fool of a man.

"Then I have no chance," Sherlock said stiffly.

"That's not-"

"Why? Why does the same not apply to me?" Sherlock stared at his fingers spread out on the table. "I will not insult your intelligence with debates over what makes a father, but it…it matters only what she thinks, John. She looks at you and sees her father. She will always look at you and see that."

And, as much as it was painful to admit, she would never look at Sherlock and see that, not when she already had John.

"It's…thank you, but I know that," John said firmly. "It's the legalities." Sherlock looked up curiously to see John scrubbing at his forehead. "Harry…she meant well… Jesus, that's a lie. She wanted it to be as easy on her as possible. Ava's birth certificate is a lie. If anyone finds that out…it's a crime." John let out a bitter chuckle. "If Harry hadn't been so bloody short-sighted I could have adopted Ava, legally! Now…when she shows musical talent or… She has a way of humming sometimes and tapping her fingers, which is what Max did when I met him, and all I can see is a paper trail-"

"Your reaction makes it into one."

"I know." John ran a hand through his hair. "I know and I can't stop it. I just…I love Ava more than anything in this world and the idea that someone could take her away and I couldn't stop it breaks my heart." John let out a breath. "She should be safe. She should be secure and know that she'll always have a place to come back to and hide from the world if she needs to. If anyone found out-"

"Mycroft could create a paper trail."

John looked at Sherlock, wide-eyed, in stunned amazement. "What?"

"Mycroft. He could make Harry's false name exist. School records that sort of thing. DNA testing can be faked, you could always claim that you had doubts or wanted to check for family history because you had doubts and that could go in the file. There are ways, John, to build up a wall of fabrication."

John drew in a ragged breath. "Wouldn't that mean more people know?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Mycroft's resources would make it possible to do it all very quickly. I could do the majority of it."

"You stretched as it is with the Simone thing," John muttered.

No. That was just brick wall after brick wall. This was something he could actually do, something to keep Ava safe." Sherlock just raised an eyebrow, as if John had been insulting.

"Okay… What about…if something happens?" John asked haltingly.

"Like?"

"Sherlock..." John sounded a little irritated. "Don't pretend. If Moriarty uses Simone-"

"He won't."

"He might-"

"There will be something. He knows that."

"Sherlock-"

"If it would work he would have used it. It's a minor complication I would rather not have hanging over our heads. It will come to nothing, John."

John looked away, shaking his head. "Then why are you being so damned stubborn about it?" he asked. "You're not taking other cases, you're not-"

"Fine!" Sherlock snapped. "Fine. I was trying to not stay out of the flat for days on end while you're recovering."

The misdirection worked perfectly. John flinched a little and then softened. "Okay…okay… Well, I'm fine now. I promise you." He reached out for Sherlock's hand. "I'm really fine."

Of course he was.

* * *

**26th April**

Sherlock turned the alarm off. Judging from the exhausted slumber John was experiencing he wouldn't even be awake when Sherlock got back from dropping Ava at school.

_Lunch. Yours. -SH_

Ava was playing with her cereal, looking at him thoughtfully as he wandered around the kitchen, waiting for Mycroft to reply as he examined the latest corrosion results in the test tubes. She seemed to be trying to work something out.

Exactly when had she developed this gift for listening into conversations while pretending to be asleep? Her lips were pursed as if she were trying to make sense of what she had heard.

Which meant she hadn't heard too much.

"Is Daddy awake yet?" she asked suddenly.

Sherlock shook his head. "He didn't get to sleep until late." This was unlike Mycroft to leave it this long to reply.

"I heard you talking last night."

Ah, a confession. Wonderful. If only Mycroft could be so forthright. Perhaps he should ask the man to take tips!

"I know." Sherlock paused, trying to refocus on Ava as he turned to her. "And?"

John was an idiot; just one look at her pondering face and everyone would mark her as his daughter. She had so many of his expressions and mannerisms it was impossible to see anyone else in her.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Ava asked, putting her spoon down and looking all of a sudden very serious and very grown up.

Or at least as if she thought herself very serious and grown up.

Trying not to smile at the sight, Sherlock nodded, watching her very carefully as she leaned forward as if to tell him a huge secret.

"I hate playing the piano," she whispered.

Oh, John.

Ava was looking a little uncertain, as if unsure her opinion was allowed.

"Of course you do," he said, shaking the test tube in his hand. "And of course the idiotic man didn't think to ask you."

"You have to stay sat down," Ava confided further, seemingly pleased with his reaction. "At least when you play you can walk around," she added.

Sherlock nodded. "Indeed," he agreed, amused by her train of thought.

"So can I learn to play the violin?"

Sherlock paused, his heart hammering.

_Yes._

* * *

"Seriously?" John asked as he put his tea down.

Sherlock nodded. "As a skill it can be very useful; dexterity, timing, and musicality can be important, multitasking-"

"You don't need to sell it to me!" John grinned. "I think it's a lovely idea."

"Far more complicated that a piano," Sherlock added stubbornly.

"Sherlock!" John stared at him. "I'm on board with it!"

That had been easier than expected.

Sitting back, Sherlock shifted his mind, strangely unsatisfied that he hadn't had to argue to teach Ava the violin.

Mycroft still hadn't replied.

He felt a little aimless.

"You can actually teach, can't you?" John said suddenly.

Thrown by the return to a conversation he'd thought he'd won, Sherlock looked up. "Yes."

"And this isn't like 'I can teach you to deduce', is it?"

"It's hardly my fault if you can't see what's right in front of you-"

"Maybe we should look at getting her music lessons. Just to start off."

Sherlock sat up, glaring.

"I'm not saying you can't teach her," John said hurriedly, "I just… She'd be an absolute beginner. Could you cope with having it that broken down and simplified?"

"I cope with explaining things to you," Sherlock muttered.

John raised an eyebrow. "Fine," he said, turning his newspaper page and refocusing on it. "I leave the musical education in your hands.

"And what is left in your hands?"

John looked thoughtful. "Manners," he said eventually. "God knows she'd never get them from you!"

"I assume, then, you know how to correctly pour tea and eat a banana?"

John flicked his eyes up. "I know normal manners," he amended, "not the upper class idiocy."

"That's rather rude, John."

A twitch of a smile appeared. "Fuck you, dear." John said in a light tone.

"And you." Sherlock inclined his head, smiling back.

* * *

Mycroft send a message much later in the day.

_Busy Staff wil help you with whatsneeded._

The message hadn't been studied and checked for errors, punctuation or spacing. Mycroft had been in a rush.

Mycroft was struggling.

Sherlock threw the phone across the room.

* * *

It took a week to get the false paper trail, to create Mary Morstan (God only knew where Harry had got that name from when she had signed the name on the birth certificate), to create a birth, a life and a death.

It took a few weeks to link John to that trail, a few trips so John would know areas if ever asked about them.

* * *

**May 2nd**

"This is weird," John said, looking around the hotel, one that was nowhere near as plush as the one Sherlock had taken him to a few weeks ago, but certainly serviceable. "So I was here for-"

"To conceive Ava."

John grinned and then slowly seemed to stop grinning when he realised Sherlock was serious. "Wait, what?"

"You and Mary were friends, on and off again throughout the years. People would have noticed a relationship, John. It has to be a one-off occurrence, almost as if it were an annual event," Sherlock scolded

John huffed, "Great. Do we really need to stay all night?"

"We could always say Ava was conceived in an hour's stay."

Defeated, John groaned. "Fine. But in that case I'm not wasting this."

Amused by the idea, Sherlock nodded.

* * *

"No sudden announcements?" Sherlock asked, walking out of the bathroom that evening, towelling his hair roughly.

"No, though I have just had an in-depth analysis of Mycroft's office," John complained, putting the phone down on the table.

Sherlock paused. "And?"

John shot him a pained look. "I am not repeating this conversation," he said, flicking through the channels. "I suffered it once."

"You don't think it's important to hear what our…what Ava thinks about Mycroft's office?"

"I think our daughter is five years old and far more focussed on the quality of hot chocolate rather than interesting deductions about Mycroft that you can use against him at a later date." John settled on a quiz show.

It wasn't a common enough occurrence yet that his stomach didn't flip at the words.

_Our daughter._

And it appeared there had been nothing out of the ordinary about Mycroft's behaviour, implying he was doing better with the Moriarty issue. Though Sherlock would need to talk to Ava himself to check that.

"You have planned this?" Sherlock asked, diverting the conversation away from dangerously sentimental territory. "Not just sat watching bad television?"

John reached out for the hotel magazine. "Oh? I thought we could just sit here and have a few beers."

Sherlock threw the damp towel at John. "You owe me." He reminded John of his words calmly as he started to dress. "I had plans. Extensive plans before your daughter-"

"Our daughter."

"Believe me, in that situation she was distinctly _your_ daughter."

John grinned at the television. "Continue."

"-ruined my plans," Sherlock finished uselessly, without the steam he'd been earlier building up. "So…you had better have used more than the ten minutes you typically spent on planning activities for those insipid women you used to date."

John nodded. "It was at least twelve."

Sherlock nodded then glared. "Why are you being so flippant?"

John rolled his eyes and glanced at his watch. "I swear it's like dating a woman. Get dressed!"

"That's hardly the attitude."

"That's hardly helping your argument."

* * *

Forty minutes later they were walking by the river with hot, thick chips in a foam box.

"Stop eating the crispy ones," John muttered as Sherlock stabbed a particularly delicious looking chip.

Amused, Sherlock blew out the hot steam, almost as if it were the smoke from a cigarette. "I believe as your 'date' I can do as I wish."

John pulled the chips from where he was holding them for Sherlock to reach. "Want to bet?"

Sherlock darted for the box, which sent John spiralling. Somehow the ex-army doctor managed to keep his balance and the box's with not a single chip spilled. Which of course was nothing less than permission for Sherlock to keep trying.

"You bloody child!" John gasped between gasps of laughter. "Get lost."

John had some advantage in that he could duck down lower than Sherlock with ease. It went on until John held the box out behind him and Sherlock crowded in front of him, John's arms strained backward to keep the box just out of Sherlock's reach.

John was panting and laughing, eyes alight as he kept the chips behind him, waiting for Sherlock's next move.

God, he loved this man so much.

Sherlock ducked his head down to John and kissed him. John's mouth was hot from the chips and slightly salty from the seasoning.

"Fine," John said as he pulled away. "Here." He offered up the box so Sherlock could take one.

"Your generosity is endless." Sherlock grinned.

They walked on, the silence comfortable.

Until.

"I'm sorry it's not more," John said suddenly.

"Don't be. It wouldn't have been half as much fun if you'd bought one lot of chips each."

"That's not what I-"

"I'm aware of what you meant," Sherlock replied evenly. "You're being stupid."

John threw a chip at him.

They continued walking.

"So…" John looked at him. "This is rock solid then? This Mary Morstan story?"

Sherlock nodded. "Utterly." He frowned a little. "Have you given any thought as to what to do when Ava is old enough to ask questions about this?"

"We'll think of something," John said after a moment. "Together, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded and took his hand.

* * *

To those of you that are keeping track May 2nd also features in Mycroft's story "Tea and Coffee" in which he looks after Ava at his office.

Thank you for reading :)


	11. Chapter 10: May 19th

Look!

I updated relatively speedily...so proud of myself :P

* * *

May 19th

The thief ran, hurtling his way past tourists and knocking into shopping bags as Sherlock gave chase, aware that John was merely seconds behind, following him. The heat of May meant the streets were busy; thick with crowds who seemed to think chasing down the thief was some kind of film stunt.

Stupid people.

Seeing Sherlock was closing in on him, the thief looked about frantically as he ran across the bridge, eager for an escape route. In the distance the sound of Lestrade's squad cars rang out, steadily becoming louder as they drew closer.

As the thief's options dwindled, he slowed down and his movements became jerky and panicked.

His head tilted to the side, as if to search for an alternative escape, then he looked at the railing again with more purpose.

"Shit!" John breathed behind him. "Sherlock-"

The thief twisted and vaulted over the railing and into the river below, which ordinarily would be stupidly okay with Sherlock, having seen this idiotic choice far too often. In fact, he'd often stopped to watch, amused, as the police boats picked them up.

But the thief had Sherlock's evidence in his pocket.

"Don't you bloody-" John started to yell as Sherlock raced forward and followed the thief over the edge.

The water was freezing and utterly filthy. After struggling to the surface, Sherlock made his way over in a few strokes to the flailing thief and grabbed at him, hands twisting awkwardly in the sodden jacket to get into the pockets as the thief twisted and turned in his grasp, submerging Sherlock more than once.

Once he'd ascertained that what he needed was still in the pocket, Sherlock kept a fist closed around the shape in the fabric and proceeded to try and strip the jacket off of the thief, unwilling to risk losing the evidence. Once he managed to yank the jacket off he abandoned the thief who was still struggling in the water, far more exhausted in his efforts after their tussle, and swam to the bank.

John was waiting for him, arms folded and glaring down.

"Do not start," Sherlock hissed, dumping the coat onto the cement before reaching up to the metal railings to haul himself out of the water. John narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to look past Sherlock and at the still struggling thief, sighing heavily.

"The boat will pick him up," Sherlock muttered. His arms strained against the weight of his wet clothes to pull himself up with some measure of grace. John, in what was probably an effort to show his disapproval, simply stepped back to avoid getting even a hint of river water on him and watched with a thoroughly unimpressed look on his face.

It was harder than it looked to stay upright with the weight of his sodden coat hanging on him, but somehow Sherlock managed to maintain his balance and retrieve the jacket he had dumped on the ground. He shivered as a blast of wind added its chill to the water on his skin.

"Are you going to help?" he snapped at John.

"I could push you back in," John offered. "Then you could have another swim to warm yourself up."

Sherlock shook his head with more force than was necessary, watching with some satisfaction as a few droplets landed on one of John's folded hands. John just unwound his arms, frowned and muttered something derogatory under his breath.

"Your thief's being picked up," John said with a nod at the boats behind Sherlock.

So? That was Lestrade's problem now.

* * *

"I need you to give a statement."

"I have utterly no interest in adding to your paperwork," Sherlock replied snottily, trying to work out how to convince a taxi to take him home when he smelt like sewage. Cabbies were getting so fussy nowadays about what liquids they would allow in their cabs.

"He could sue you," Lestrade huffed. "You left him to drown!"

Screwing up his face in displeasure, Sherlock glared. "I relieved him of extra weight," he snapped. "I helped."

One of the officers gave him a look as they entered the building and then exchanged a pitying glance with Lestrade.

"Just trust me; I'll waste less of your time by doing this." Lestrade took in his plastered-down hair and discoloured shoes. "You need a change of clothes."

It just got better and better.

* * *

Lestrade had bundled them into the changing rooms at the station with a few not quite muttered opinions about Sherlock's saturated, flat hair.

At least it wasn't grey.

"Here." John walked into the room and locked the door behind him, holding a pile of clothes and a towel in his arms.

"What are they?" Sherlock asked warily.

"Uh…tracksuit." John shrugged. "It was all they had that would fit you."

Sherlock let out an irritated growl.

"Oh, shut up!" John dumped the clothes on the table. "Do you have any idea how utterly stupid you were today? What if there had been one of the speedboats passimg by? Or what if you'd landed on the theif? Or if you'd misaimed your jump-"

"I've managed far worse jumps and come out of it fine."

John's mouth twitched. He shoved the clothes and towel towards Sherlock before sitting heavily in the chair, palms pressed to his forehead.

Unable to concentrate properly, distracted as he was by the feel of the sodden clothes, Sherlock grabbed at the tracksuit and stormed into the shower, unsure as to what John's issue was.

It wasn't until he stepped out of the shower minutes later, hair plastered to his forehead, that his mind suddenly snapped onto what John had seen.

Sherlock hurtling down, through the air.

Furious, he clenched his hands around the sink, hating that it never seemed to be over; that John could never quite seem to forget Sherlock's deception. It would always be there, lurking. Always raised at odd moments, dragging the guilt up with it.

Sherlock straightened up firmly. If that was the price for the life he had now, then he would gladly endure the uncomfortable feelings that seemed as if they would never leave.

* * *

Out in the room again John was standing at the table, hands clenched together and pressed against his mouth and the bottom of his nose. There was a slightly wary look on his face as he glanced up when Sherlock entered.

"I forget," Sherlock said, dumping the soggy clothes on the table and feeling utterly out of place in the tracksuit. "I forget what you saw, what I made you see."

"I know." John pulled his hands apart and stood up, starting to sort out the clothes. "It's like one of those tricks, I suppose. You know what you saw and the method behind it; it must be hard to remember that the rest of us just saw the illusion." John shook out the shirt and started to fold it. "And, in fairness, I never saw you land. I just…when you jumped…" John pushed the folded material into the table in a long, firm move. "I…all I could see was you…"

Sherlock looked away. Words seemed small and useless. Instead, he listened as John folded up his trousers and underwear, then slid them into a plastic bag and started to fold up the coat.

"You should go back," Sherlock said into the silence. "Visit Bart's."

John's movement's stumbled momentarily, but then he carried on as if he hadn't heard. "You need to go to interview three," he said in a calm tone. "Lestrade wants to take your statement and have it all on record in case the thief wants to be a complete wanker."

Sherlock looked down at the faded grey tracksuit and glared at the door. "With his camera phone I imagine," he hissed, unimpressed.

John turned in amusement. "You can walk into Buckingham Palace in a sheet, but God forbid you walk into an interview room in jogging bottoms?"

"It was my sheet." Sherlock plucked at the loose thread on a sleeve with some distaste.

"Ah." John slid the coat into the bag. "Yes, that makes it perfectly fine then."

Sherlock blinked at what he was wearing. He had been far too distracted with John to pay attention earlier. The places where the material had been stretched and now sagged meant he could approximate height and body shape, the smell of a certain deodorant lingered from the locker it had been taken from-

"Was this really necessary?" he snarled at John, who was now leaning back against the table, braced with both hands and wearing a frank, proud smile.

"Well, let's see…you jumped into the Thames in a truly stupid manner, risking life and limb for evidence and making me relive your finest trick, while I made you dress in Anderson's clothes." John pretended to think about it. "I think in our world that makes us even!"

Sherlock drew in a long breath. "You are collecting Ava tonight from those dullards," he bargained. "Then we will be even."

John rolled his eyes. "Sure," he said with a smile.

Sherlock stared at him for a beat and then winced. "Anderson's in the interview room, isn't he?"

John nodded happily.

* * *

Anderson looked apoplectic. It was the one saving grace that almost put Sherlock in a good mood for the ridiculous interview he had to suffer through.

He sneezed on the way out.

"We can stop off at the chemist," John offered as Sherlock flagged down a cab.

"For?"

"Medicine. Unless you really want Ava's Calpol?"

Sherlock glared up at the sky. "I am not sick," he huffed angrily. "It's far too soon for that."

"Ah yes, I forgot about all the years you spent studying medicine, working at a doctor's surgery where the cold is one of the most common ailments… Oh wait." John tiled his head to the side. "That doesn't sound like you, that sounds like me! Must make me the expert then."

"How droll," Sherlock muttered as he climbed in the taxi and gave their address. "I am not sick," he repeated for good measure, glaring out the window.

"Change that," John said to the driver. "Warren Street station first." He sat back and shut the door. "As you can't be bothered to pick Ava up."

"The parents are dull." Sherlock stared out at the traffic. "If you wish her to have a good relationship with these people I suggest you keep me as far from them as possible."

"Do you know what's really dull? Sick people who won't take medicine when they're sick," John muttered.

"Stop nagging."

Out of the corner of his eyes Sherlock could see John throw his arms up in surrender. "Fine. I'm not being accused of being the nagging housewife."

Good. There was an absurd image conjured up at the words of John in an apron twiddling a wooden spoon in a mixing bowl.

When the taxi stopped, John paused before opening the door. "We're even, remember," he said warily. "No retaliation."

Sherlock nodded, still distracted by the absurd image for some odd reason.

* * *

Ava, of course, took John's side when she returned from her friend's house and stared wistfully at their plates of Chinese food. The pair seemed to think that Sherlock should be swimming in cough mixture.

She raced upstairs with her usual lack of grace as John sat down next to him.

"I am not talking to you," Sherlock groused.

John said nothing and attacked his food with his fork, clearly bothered by Ava's frank repetition that Mrs Anglia Coleman thought John didn't feed Ava properly. "Especially if you're so idiotic as to even consider what that woman has been saying," Sherlock added.

John nodded. "She's hardly right," he said, taking a mouthful. "I do object to the vultures discussing it, though. Do you see me judging anyone else's parenting abilities?" he asked bitterly.

Sherlock stared at the television. "Society believes men to be ineffective mothers," he said. "Shocking really, isn't it?" he added sarcastically. "But then single parents are often seen to be lacking in some way."

"I hate that Ava hears it." John sighed. "One day she won't be so little and she will understand the implications of what they're saying." He frowned. "And it's gay parents," he corrected, "Not single parent."

"Let's not play the game of which one the parental mafia on the playground will disapprove of the most." Sherlock sneezed suddenly three times in quick succession and felt his eyes water. "Bloody dust," he muttered.

"I think the time for that has been and gone." John put his cutlery down and reached for some tissues. "Would you just-"

"Go away," Sherlock muttered, steadfastly ignoring the tissues and John rolling his eyes.

* * *

Sherlock lay on the sofa with his fingers pressed together as John did the washing up. So far his ruse seemed to be working; John believed he was still solving cases he'd resolved days ago, and life seemed to have suddenly veered into a strange normality that had Sherlock gritting his teeth. It was insufferable that this wasn't truly his life; that Moriarty's games ensured he couldn't relax into it. The idea of chasing criminals down with John at his side and then coming home to the bright-eyed little girl he adored, sharing evenings with her and John was such a comforting and welcoming thought.

When it was all over, when everything was done, Sherlock wanted this. He wanted to box it up somehow and keep it perfectly preserved to enjoy and study.

He could hear John and Ava talking in the kitchen, hear her giggling in delight at John.

Sherlock couldn't abide this threat hanging over them. It was beyond unfair; they'd taken care of the fake mother and name on Ava's birth certificate, why couldn't the potential murder charge be dealt with as easily?

"Go and ask Sherlock to help you," John said from the kitchen.

"But he's sick-" Ava replied as if John were suggesting something thoroughly ridiculous.

The pair of them were such mother hens.

"I'm not sick," Sherlock glared at the window. "What is it?"

Sure enough, he could hear her padding around before she came into view, wearing ajamas that featured a rather malevolent looking fairy thing with flowers, her hair ruffled and eyes serious.

"I have to think of my dream job and say why it's my dream job," Ava announced, flashing her book at Sherlock. "And draw a picture," she added.

Job? What on earth did she need a job for?

"You're five," Sherlock muttered, trying to swallow down the irrational panic. "You don't need to think about jobs yet."

Not for another ten years at least. Ten years was a long time, wasn't it? He hadn't even known John for that amount of time.

Ava pouted as she dropped the book. "If I don't then I have to talk to Mrs Parker at break time about why I didn't do my homework like Stacy has to," she explained, completely missing his point.

He was starting to wonder if she did it on purpose.

Rubbing his eyes, Sherlock mentally refocused himself. It could be interesting to track what she wanted to do, to see how her priorities changed over the years. Almost interested now, he twisted to face her.

"Well, what do you want to do then?"

Ava shrugged. "I don't know."

That was utterly useless for his data. Glaring at John, who was finishing drying up and who looked equally unhappy at the idea of Ava with a job and old and no longer five, Sherlock sighed.

"Write that you wish to be unemployed then," he said dismissively, ignoring the face John pulled.

Ava seemed to consider that seriously for a moment, then screwed her face up. "I don't think I want to be that," she told him. "Quentin's dad was telling the mums in the playground how horrible the job centre was 'cause he's unemployed and he has to go there so it's not even as if you get a lie in," she told him with such earnestness he almost smiled.

Perhaps it was too soon to be calculating things such as priorities. Five-year-olds, he was discovering, were very short-sighted about such things.

"Then sit and think quietly about what you want to do," Sherlock instructed, turning back to the ceiling. In his mind, he was already sorting the week's events in search of a new route to use in the search for Simone's body.

"Who do you admire?" John asked, coming in with a hot drink and disturbing the process. "Who would you like to be when you grow up?"

That might be interesting. Pausing his thoughts, he waited to hear Ava's response.

"I can choose anyone?" Ava asked.

"Anyone. It could be someone you know, someone you see on the telly," John said. His voice was much closer now. A glance in his direction showed the cup was filled with a watery purple liquid and Sherlock restrained the urge to sniff in annoyance; both at the Beechams that was being offered and the fact that he'd been unable to smell the Beechams.

"For the last time, I am not sick," Sherlock growled.

"Humour me," John replied.

As if that method would work. Pursing his lips, Sherlock glared at the ceiling and ignored the cup. He could still feel two pairs of eyes on him as Ava watched the exchange curiously.

John leaned back a bit and then a smirk appeared on his face. "You do what I want and I'll do what you want."

Sexual favours? Dull, he could convince John to do most things. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock started to turn away before catching a glimpse of Ava's lost face.

John wouldn't offer sexual favours in front of Ava.

What was he… Sherlock suddenly remembered their conversation earlier about Bart's. Looking over at John, he raised an eyebrow. John nodded so softly it was almost imperceptible.

That was far too good a opportunity to turn down. Quickly, before John changed his mind, he made a sharp gesture for the cup, ignoring the suddenly smug look on John's face.

This was the kind of compromise he could deal with, though why John thought he'd got the upper hand here Sherlock had no idea. John only smiled when Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Any ideas?" John asked, turning his attention back to Ava, still looking very pleased with himself. Hiding a fond smile, Sherlock took a sip and winced at the foul taste.

Perhaps John had got the better part of this deal.

"I want to work at Tesco," Ava announced brightly.

What? Sherlock paused mid-sip. That he hadn't predicted.

"Tesco. That's your dream job?" John asked blankly.

"The girl who works there always looks pretty," Ava explained. "And you get to know what everyone is buying."

Pretty? Sherlock could fully understand and respect the last reason, but to work somewhere because one girl looked pretty? That was unacceptable.

"Yes but…"John floundered, then sighed. "Okay then."

"What?" Sherlock snapped and sat up properly. "You can't be serious-" He turned to John desperately.

"It's hardly a binding contract. It will change a thousand and one times before she has to think about it properly."

But still… Tesco? One of the few times Sherlock had been there he had heard one of the workers ask the management where the defrosting instructions were for ice-cream, clearly an unknowing victim of a prank.

He hoped. God, people were stupid.

"You don't want to be a…" What would be a good job for Ava?

Never growing up?

That probably wouldn't work. Looking at John helplessly for inspiration, he finished his sentence rather pathetically: "A doctor?"

Ava screwed her nose up. "That's boring," she complained. "Daddy does that."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw John press his lips together and snort in amusement. Then the insufferable man looked pointedly at the cup in Sherlock's hands. Obediently, Sherlock took another sip.

"A pilot?" he asked.

"They always die in the films." Ava was sitting down on the floor with her pencils, making herself comfortable. "Gary Anderson's big brother says so."

John closed his eyes and shook his head.

"A dress maker?"

Ava paused, seemingly thinking about it. "I'd rather just buy them," she said honestly after a moment.

"A…prime minister?" Mycroft could probably swing that.

"What's that?"

Sherlock took a sip, steeling himself against the taste. "He's the one on the television who makes speeches about what he thinks we should do."

Ava shook her head. "I don't want to wear a tie."

Sherlock drew in a breath.

"Leave it alone," John said gently. "And drink up."

Ava was already drawing the Tesco girl.

Still, some of her priorities had been interesting. At least he could take some comfort in that.

* * *

"Feel better?" John asked as they undressed for bed later on.

"Yes, Beechams is a miracle, must have cure. You're out of a job." Sherlock threw himself into the bed petulantly. "What will all the old ladies with their sniffles flirt with now?"

John sounded amused when he answered, "I could always take that up as a part time job!"

No, John was his. Turning to glare as John pulled his socks off, Sherlock sprawled out over the bed. John sighed. Nodding to himself, John yanked at one of Sherlock's ankles, causing Sherlock to yelp in a rather undignified manner as John pulled him down and then darted onto the bed.

"No wonder you never managed to spend the night at Sarah's," Sherlock huffed, as he pulled himself back up the bed, determined to make as much movement as possible. "You have no concept of how to treat your bed-mates."

"Shame, isn't it?" John replied, sounding rather unconcerned. "Go to sleep. You need rest."

He needed to think. Wrapping around John, Sherlock rested his chin on warm skin and started to nudge ideas around.

* * *

Sherlock woke to a rather unexpected noise.

John.

He was twisting in the bed, muttering desperately under his breath, his breaths coming quick and shallow.

Nightmare. Not Afghanistan – that usually was accompanied by more noise, or conversely by utter silence.

"Don't," John was pleading. "Please, not again, can't-" Whatever else he'd been about to say was lost as he tossed again.

Sherlock sat up and frowned down at him. "John," he said, gripping at his good shoulder. "John."

But his voice just seemed to make things worse. "Don't!" John sounded utterly desperate. "Please, I can't-" His body spasmed in confusion as he tried to make a move it wasn't capable of making as it lay flat. "Don't jump."

Flinching, Sherlock pulled back and tried to get himself under control.

John hadn't had this dream since they'd been together.

Sliding down, Sherlock wrapped himself around John carefully and tried to still his movements with gentle touches. "Shush, I'm here. I'm fine and I'm here," he repeated in a calm tone. "I'm fine."

He resisted the urge to use John's name, dredged his memory to avoid using any phrases he'd used that day to avoid pushing John further into the nightmare.

Suddenly John's breathing changed and he froze in Sherlock's arms. Sherlock didn't stop what he was doing; the soothing tone, the careful touches. Slowly, John started to relax and then nodded.

Taking the hint, Sherlock stopped and waited, but didn't move away. After a moment, John turned to him desperately, lips seeking his, hands roaming his head, his neck his ribs.

Checking; John was reassuring himself.

So Sherlock let him. Wordlessly obeying the frantic touches and responding to the not quite steady hands as John explored his body.

And afterwards, when John finished swallowing him down and held on to his hands as if he were pulling Sherlock out of danger, John just lay, breathing in the skin of Sherlock's thigh.

There was nothing Sherlock could say.

"You're right," John whispered. "We need to go back to the roof."

The roof? Sherlock hadn't intended them to go up there; the pavement would have sufficed. Obviously feeling his tension, John looked up at him, curious.

"Perhaps we both need that," Sherlock acknowledged, running a hand through John's hair to steady himself.

Softening, John shifted up Sherlock's body to kiss him before collapsing next to him, face down, eyes closed and grimacing at something before he opened them again. Turning onto his side, Sherlock watched him.

"What do you see?" he asked softly.

"Blood on the pavement," John replied, shifting his head so he could look at Sherlock. "The colours, your eyes…everything was so pale and cold and then there was the blood."

"It would have been yours." Sherlock swallowed thickly. "It would have been you."

"I know." John tried to smile. "It's stupid, isn't it, being that emotional over an image."

Sherlock reached out a hand, tracing John's spine carefully. "You had blood on your cheek," he whispered. "When Moran… I had blood on my hands and I grabbed you." Swallowing, he watched his fingers rather than John's face.

John sighed. "Well, we're both gits then, aren't we?"

Sherlock nodded. "At least I had the decency to not really be bleeding."

John chuckled. "True."

* * *

He must have dozed off again after drawing patterns on John's back. Patterns such as words he didn't want to say out loud in case they woke John up.

Someone was sobbing.

John? But even as he woke up his mind dismissed the possibility.

Ava.

The little girl was silhouetted in the doorway, lingering hesitantly.

"What…" He started to climb out of bed before realising he was grabbed for his dressing gown, wrapping it around himself. "What's-"

"Sick," Ava sobbed, sounding terrified.

Worried, Sherlock slid out of the bed and reached out a cold hand to her forehead, restraining the urge to gasp when he felt just how hot she was.

What should he do?

"John," he called loudly, dropping down to onto his knees so that he was level with Ava, studying her and suddenly catching the smell of vomit. "You've been sick," he muttered, stunned.

Ava pushed her head against his hands like an eager cat even as her tiny body shook. "Flushed it," she mumbled as if that were the most salient point.

"That's not…JOHN!" Sherlock turned to the bed, seeing John start to stir. "Get up," he shouted.

This wasn't normal.

John appeared beside them, blinking sleep out of his eyes and wrapping his own dressing gown around himself. He ran his eyes over both of them and firmed his jaw."What-"

"She's burning up," Sherlock said quickly, grabbing for John's hand and pressing it to Ava's forehead so he could feel for himself.

John yawned as his hand reached out then instantly sharpened when he felt the heat radiating from their daughter. Sherlock moved to the side a little as John frowned and adjusted his hand, kneeling down beside Sherlock.

"She's been sick," Sherlock added, eyes darting between the two, desperate to understand what he was meant to do, how he was meant to fix this.

"Get the light," John murmured. Sherlock instantly obeyed, eager to be doing something.

In the light Ava looked deathly pale, her cheeks flushed unnaturally and eyes glassy as she seemed to lose focus. John reached out and picked her up in one arm as the other reached for the bin, getting it in place just as Ava threw up. Shifting, John held her carefully and brushed her hair back from her head while stroking her back.

"Thermometer," John ordered sounding far too calm for Sherlock's liking.

Sherlock darted for the kitchen and retrieved the old one before filling up a glass with water and bringing both back in. At John's nod he took the indictaor out of the box and pressed it to her head, hissing in alarm when the colours lit up far past the usual line.

"That's too hot," Sherlock said urgently. "Especially for a child."

John leaned over to glance at the temperature and paled slightly. "What did you have to eat tonight?" John asked Ava.

Startled, Sherlock looked up at him.

"Chicken soup," Ava whimpered, gasping in shaking mouthfuls of air, tears cascading down her face.

Chicken?

Terror started to build and Sherlock stared up at John, wide-eyed.

"Water," John mouthed at Sherlock, who pressed the glass to Ava's lips, watching as she swallowed, her eyes brimming with tears.

How did they make this go away?

"John..." Sherlock's voice wavered as he tried to ask the question.

John was taking a deep breath. "Did it taste funny?" he asked.

Ava nodded against the glass pulling away, and Sherlock tipped the glass back down so it didn't spill. "Like washing-up liquid," Ava sobbed.

"Was it just you who ate it?" John asked in what could only be described as a doctor's tone.

"Poppy had some too." Ava glanced down at the bin, her face scrunching up. Sherlock grabbed it and went out to dump the contents into the kitchen bin before quickly flushing it out at the sink.

John was phoning someone when Sherlock came back. Ava was curled up against him, hanging onto his dressing gown.

"Ambulance?" Sherlock asked as he placed a fresh bowl in front of Ava.

John shook his head and passed Ava to Sherlock. Swallowing his nerves, Sherlock sank to the floor. He seated Ava sideways on in his lap and pressed his mouth to her hair. "We need to keep her hydrated," John said as he redialled the number.

He was phoning the other parents. As much as Sherlock wanted to shout at him and demand he phone the bloody hospital he had to concede it might be better to know exactly what they were dealing with before they called the hospital.

Ava was boiling against him as her body temperature spiked, trying to fight off the food poisoning, if indeed that was the cause. Dipping his fingers into the water, Sherlock touched them to her forehead and swallowed back a noise of sheer frustration as Ava gasped in relief and pushed her head further onto his fingers.

There surely had to be much more that he could do.

One look at John when he came in had Sherlock clutching Ava to him. John looked very pale and he seemed to be trying to calm himself down.

"What?" Sherlock mouthed at John as his partner knelt in front of them.

John glanced at him and just swallowed.

"Open your mouth," he said to Ava gently and then ran a finger along the inside of her cheek. He rubbed his fingers together, trying to judge the tackiness of her oral secretions, and then placed another finger in her fist.

"Squeeze for me," he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. His eyes met Sherlock's over her hair, as if trying to draw strength as he attempted to assess how much strength and coordination Ava had over her muscles and extremities. John's face winced as Ava tried to obey.

Scared as he was, it was impossible to read John now as to just how bad it was. Staying very still, Sherlock stared at John as John pulled back and studied Ava.

"Do you still feel sick?" John asked.

"Yes," Ava cried.

"Okay," John said soothingly as he stood up. "I'm going to get dressed. You need to give her water, slowly and as much as she can manage without vomiting. You have to do it slowly."

He could do that. "Do you want me to call-"

John shook his head. "We'll be quicker in a taxi," he said as he walked to the dresser.

"Ambulances have sirens-" Sherlock started to argue.

"And order of priority," John snapped as he started to open the drawers.

How was it that Ava wouldn't be classed as a priority? Sherlock stared helplessly at John's back and then, remembering his instructions, Sherlock pressed a glass against Ava lips and then pulled it away after a few seconds, trying hard to ignore the whimper as he did so.

"Trust me," John continued, "at this time on a Friday night we'll be quicker getting a taxi."

Sherlock felt a deep shudder crash its way through Ava's body and tried to scramble them forward, but Ava missed, vomiting everywhere.

And it wasn't just the normal sick colour this time.

It was black, with spots of red.

Blood.

"John!" Sherlock almost screamed in terror, feeling her body shake and try to expel even more. It was wrong, she was far too tiny for such a force to be going through her.

John, now dressed, grabbed her and glanced down at the vomit. "Call," he said urgently. "Tell them she's throwing up bile and blood."

Scrambling for his phone, Sherlock called, frantic and desperate as he snapped at whoever was on the other end.

"They're on their way," he breathed, changing quickly. "Is she-"

"She's in danger of dehydration," John said, sounding firm. "I can't get fluid into her quick enough here."

"The blood-"

John shot him a look. "It's not internal bleeding," he scolded. "Christ, do you think I'd have let you make that babbling call if it was?"

"Then what is it?"

"She's scraped herself raw hurling this violently. It's just a scratched trachea." John was pressing a water-soaked hand to Ava's head. "We need to bring her temperature down as well."

"With?"

John glanced at the clock. "They'll be here soon," he said, stroking a hand up and down Ava's back.

Grudgingly accepting that John might have this under control, Sherlock started to do up his shoes. "What about the other girl?"

John raised his eyes slowly. "She didn't get out of bed. Her mother found her."

"John-"

"She…she was choking on her vomit." John's voice wavered. "She- I can't... If I think about it I can't-"

Understanding, Sherlock stood up. "We should get her downstairs," he said, trying to calm himself down at the sudden glimpse of how scared John actually was.

John nodded jerkily and stood, shifting Ava in his arms. Sherlock reached for the bowl as her little body started to convulse again.

* * *

This chapter coincides with Paved with Love's "Chicken Soup" chapter. And you all thought John's bargain to get Sherlock to drink the Beechams was dirty...shame on you :P


	12. Chapter 11: May 20th to 26th

**It's probably not good when the author of the fic announces "Yay, it's getting good again..." but we are getting to the bit that I've wanted to write for ages!**

**Thank you to all who have reviewed and read this. It's kept me going through the sticky patch :)**

**Last Chapter: Sherlock and John took Ava to the hospital, Sherlock has been struggling with the problem of Moriarty's potential framing of John and Mycroft has been handling Moriarty.**

**Note: Part of this chapter coincides with "Tea and Coffee". I'm sure you know which bit if you've read it!**

**As always, thank you to swissmiss for the fab editing :)**

* * *

**20****th**** May**

They'd disappeared behind the doors. John, being Ava's father, had been allowed through.

Sherlock had not and it hadn't been the right time to argue with the procedure, not when Ava looked so pale and fragile.

How had it happened? She had been with them all night; why hadn't he seen? Why hadn't he questioned her about her visit to the idiots' house?

Pacing was annoying. It did nothing useful and the dull, white corridors did not help matters. With nothing to see, nothing to catalogue and distract his mind while he turned over facts and data, Sherlock simply sat on the uncomfortable plastic seats that were attached to the wall as if he couldn't be trusted to pull out a chair.

He should have checked on her; before, after John woke up. He should have checked and seen something. Frustrated, he ran a tense hand through his hair, clutching at it as if for help, as if he could physically pick himself up and throw himself back a few hours.

But it was impossible, impractical to wish for such foolish things, he knew. Sliding his hands down from his scalp, Sherlock turned to stare at the doors again.

"_Immediate family only."_

But John had given his permission to Sherlock. John would probably have argued with them had he the time to spend on such things. It made something inside ache fiercely; Sherlock's claim to Ava relied on John, completely on John.

Lose John, lose Ava. The two people that had become pillars of necessity in his life like air and The Work. To lose one would inevitably mean losing the other.

Such things were not worth thinking about. They were like a cliff in his mind. The drop would be so sheer and sudden, he doubted he'd ever be able to climb back up.

Best not to dwell on that. He shook himself; it was better to focus on what he could change, on what he could control.

John would keep Ava safe and Sherlock would keep John safe and free from the consequences of his involvement with Moriary, he decided, staring at the wall as if the map to the plan would suddenly appear. That was all there was to it.

Shoes squeaked on the floor, the sound as familiar that idiotic programme John watched at the same time nearly every day. The shoes sounded a little different, as if Mycroft had slipped into them without aligning the heel, sock and shoe in his usual careful manner.

His brother had been asleep then, woken up by the security detail across the street.

At least they were proving vaguely more effective this time around.

"He's in with them," Sherlock announced, keeping his eyes on Mycroft's shoes. He half wondered if his brother could hear the full measure of the tumbled emotions the sentence carried.

A polystyrene cup was presented to him wordlessly. Knowing how snobbish Mycroft was about his liquid intake, Sherlock could safely assume that the coffee was the best available for at least five minutes in any given direction.

It was, however, unfortunate that his brother liked his coffee milky, as it almost obscured the taste under the added creaminess.

"Food poisoning?" Mycroft asked eventually, taking a seat in the plastic excuse for a chair.

Sherlock nodded and took another sip.

"The other child is here," Mycroft said calmly. "It was the chicken?"

Yes-

Sherlock froze mid-nod.

If the other child was here that meant that the parents were here as well; the people that had given his Ava food poisoning.

A glance at Mycroft's face and the fading white around his knuckles indicated that Mycroft had recently walked past them, which meant they were close and within easy reach.

John was busy, taking care of Ava while Sherlock sat useless. But this, this Sherlock could take care of. Protect both John and Ava in one fell swoop.

"It will not help her recover," Mycroft warned, clearly sensing Sherlock's intent.

Ignoring his brother, Sherlock stood and dumped the disgusting coffee in the flowerpot without breaking his stride. Mycroft made a noise that could have been either annoyance or simply a weary sigh at the idea of standing once again.

Storming down the halls, retracing Mycroft's path, Sherlock strode through into a waiting room, where he vaguely recognised the dull idiots who had utterly failed to look after his daughter for three hours.

The husband was having an affair; the wife knew and was trying to create a perfect but sterile home. Both were far more concerned with appearances and their own lives. They were pale now, both sitting, clutching their hands together like the condemned awaiting execution.

It was fitting, really.

Mrs Coleman looked up first and frowned with some recognition. "Are you on the staff?" she asked hopefully, trying to sniff away the tears.

"No," Sherlock said icily.

"Our daughter's in there," the husband, hissed angrily. "Go away."

"You made them eat it." It was strange how calm he felt, as if all the anger and terror was locked away somewhere where he was aware of it but unable to wholly feel it. "The chicken soup, you made them eat it."

"It's the boyfriend," Mrs Coleman said dismissively, looking away. Her husband gave her a funny look. "Ava's father's partner."

There.

That distance. The stepping stones of relation that he would always have to navigate. And then there was the look that followed, the look that said he couldn't possibly understand what was going through their tiny, boring little heads because Ava wasn't his flesh and blood.

Who cared about flesh and blood? She was more than that.

The dismissal, as if his opinion wasn't valid now that they knew who he was, simply infuriated him.

"You won't even ask how she is? Offer an apology?" he asked, his voice sounding distant.

"Our concern is for our daughter-"

That earned them a bitterly snorted laugh. "Pity your concern didn't occur earlier, or did the pathetic dance of adultery just seem far more fun than checking on your daughter?"

"You are not a parent-"

That statement knocked the wall down as if it were made of paper. All if a sudden the blinding fury overwhelmed him and he threw whatever was in his reach at their heads.

It turned out to be a vase of flowers.

Glass shattered against the wall and water sprayed everywhere. Mycroft barely flinched while the Colemans jumped in surprise, Mrs Coleman to the side and her husband up to his feet.

"How dare you-"

"How dare I?" Sherlock snarled. "How dare I? You feed my child gone off chicken, you put her in a hospital and you have the gall to ask how dare I?" With a dangerous smile he stepped closer. "I could end everything you care about in three days, less if he" - with this he jabbed a finger at Mycroft - "feels like interfering and helping."

"Clearly the little brat has picked up bad habits from you," Mr Coleman hissed back, eyes alight with anger. "I don't know who you think you are, but you need to learn how to speak to people, just like she does."

She does? What had Ava said to him that would prompt-

Suddenly Ava's little voice echoed back to him, weak and shaking.

"_It tasted like washing up liquid."_

"She told you," Sherlock breathed suddenly. "She told you she didn't want to eat it and you made her."

Behind him, Mycroft shifted slightly.

"She was rude-"

Sherlock hit him. He did it as hard as he could and watched with satisfaction as the husband stumbled back against the wall, sliding down and clutching at his nose.

"If she hadn't gotten up, if she wasn't smart enough to get up and ask for help we would both be at the morgue right now." Sherlock's stomach dropped at the mere idea behind his statement. "If John hadn't called you, even though your bitch of a wife whined about his lack of parenting skills to every parent in the school, your daughter would still be choking on her own vomit-"

Mrs Coleman sobbed suddenly, hands over her eyes, and all of Sherlock's fight suddenly drained away.

What was the point? What did he really expect to gain from this?

At a loss, he stared at her, trying to work out what to do next. The idea of walking back upstairs to wait seemed horrific, yet he had lost something vital to continuing this line of action.

"You may wish to consider, Mr Coleman," Mycroft said from his corner, "that for all your complaints about manners and propriety, Ava and John both in their own ways saved your daughter. An apology may be suitable here; it surely would not have taken much time to check the girls' dinner?"

Mr Coleman closed his eyes and looked away, his wife's hand reaching out for his.

"And given that my brother was once accused of deceiving all of London, rose from a very well documented and public suicide, and is irritatingly ignorant of the law when those he cares for are involved, you would do best to take his warning seriously."

Recognition suddenly sparked in both the Colemans' eyes.

"I do wish your daughter a speedy recovery," Mycroft continued in the same overly polite tone as he touched a hand to Sherlock's sleeve. "We should get going, Sherlock. I can only stay so long before the prime minister starts panicking. We both know how many mistakes he uses in his texts when that happens; it's a painful situation I would like to avoid."

Sherlock let Mycroft guide him out. "You never take texts from the prime minister," he muttered. "Your secretary deals with him."

Mycroft blinked at him. "Ah, well…there is always the risk that something of importance will come up."

Sherlock snorted, almost amused despite the situation.

* * *

Mycroft left him outside the door and disappeared again quite quickly after that.

"Poppy Coleman was without air for quite some time," Mycroft said when he returned. "The doctors are unsure how much damage occurred."

Sherlock glanced at the door. Ava had been breathing, talking, crying. John had been by her side the entire time, checking her airways, keeping them both calm.

He buried his mouth between his steepled hands

"Ava will be fine."

Sherlock nodded distractedly.

* * *

The door opened and Sherlock turned to see John. He looked exhausted. John nodded as Sherlock started to stand.

"She's fine," he said.

Relieved beyond anything he'd ever felt before, Sherlock sank back down into the chair, wordless in his sudden ability to relax. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back to the ceiling.

"Are you all right, John?" Mycroft asked. It sounded like he was standing.

"I think I just experienced what a heart attack feels like." John sounded almost hoarse. "God almighty." His voice came from lower down, as if he had just slid down the wall, and when Sherlock looked that was exactly what had happened.

"I can imagine," Mycroft said mildly.

No, he couldn't.

"I suppose I should go and sort out your mess," Mycroft said, suddenly sounding suddenly far more like his old self. "Explain that your lack of social etiquette is applicable to everyone."

"The coffee was disgusting," Sherlock complained, thinking of the far too creamy drink his brother had handed him earlier. "No wonder your diet is failing."

Mycroft nodded once, then turned and walked down the hall.

When Sherlock looked back , Johnwas staring at him. "You talked to Poppy's parents?"

"Yes." Technically there had been talking involved in their interaction.

"How is she?"

"She went without air for far too long. They won't know the damage until she wakes up."

"God." John closed his eyes. "I could fucking kill them," he snarled.

"Could be arranged," Sherlock offered.

John opened his eyes and looked at him, properly looked, and stopped his gaze on Sherlock's bruised knuckles. Under the weight of it, Sherlock flexed his hands and sighed. "I'll make a detective out of you yet, John," he said slowly.

"As long as you threw one for me as well." John shifted and then drew his legs up. "I can't stand up," he whispered. "I can't move, I feel so bloody relieved."

Sherlock silently agreed. He drew in a deep breath before saying, "This cannot be normal. People would never have more than one child if they felt like this after every illness."

John grinned. "We must just be cowards," he said with a long exhale..

Sherlock nodded. "Or just not as stupid as everyone else."

That earned him a weak chuckle from John. "Yeah," he said, nodding. "That too."

Summoning the strength to lean forward, resting his arms on his knees, seemed like a momentous achievement. "She's definitely all right?" Sherlock asked, hating the stupidity of the question and yet feeling the need to ask it.

"Yeah, like I said, she needed to regain the fluid faster than I could get it into her at the flat. And the temperature and-" John cut himself off. "Lots of boring medical stuff. But she is fine, just asleep."

Sherlock looked at the doors, almost unwilling to believe it until he saw Ava with his own eyes.

"Go," John said softly. "I would come with you but…I still seem to be having some issues with standing up."

With renewed energy Sherlock leapt to his feet, pausing to brush a kiss over John's head. John turned into him and took a deep breath, then nodded.

Accepting that they didn't really need to say anything more, Sherlock made his way to Ava.

* * *

There was an IV tube hooked up to her arm, and pads monitoring her pulse rate. Stupidly, he wanted to tear them out and insist she didn't need them.

But she did. That was the problem.

She was tiny in the bed, like a little doll lost in a sea of endless sterile white, and it was impossible not to cover her hand with his own, to anchor her to somewhere safe.

"You're not to do this," he ordered her. "Your father and I are bad enough at getting into scrapes. We do not need you taking after us."

Reaching up, he brushed the curled strands from off her face, pleased to see she had regained a more natural colour than the last time he had seen her.

"You are going to be fine, though," Sherlock declared suddenly. "You would never do something so stupid as to hide in bed, afraid of waking us up or upsetting us. Too clever. Too brave to imagine doing something like that." He thought for a moment of Ava, ill with food poisoning, going to the bathroom on her own and frowned. "But next time you are to come straight to me. When you're older we can discuss you handling such things on your own. And your father needs sleep; he is terribly grumpy without it. I will make the executive decision as to whether he needs to be involved."

Ava slept on.

"How are you doing this?" Sherlock murmured, studying the small hand in his. "You are small and rude and have the strangest way of looking at the world. You do not contribute to my work; if anything, you detract from it. You take up John's attention, you disturb my experiments, make it impossible to plan five minutes in advance, and you help Mycroft annoy me." Sherlock looked down at her face, genuinely confused. "How? How is it that…" He broke off, unsure of what he wanted to say or even if he wanted to say it.

"And you keep getting older," he added. "It's insufferable."

Shaking the thought away, Sherlock refocused himself. "You are not allowed to get hurt again. Or ill." The hand in his was smooth and plump, the fingernails dirty from her play, and there was a coloured-in love heart by the base of her thumb. Staring at it for the longest time, Sherlock ended up bowing his head over her hand, pressing a kiss to the drawing and feeling relief flood his system in a way cocaine could never match.

How long he sat like that he had no idea. He didn't until John came in and placed a steady, comforting hand on his back.

Raising his head at the contact, Sherlock turned his head slightly in John's direction. "I see your legs are functioning again."

"It comes and goes," John admitted, his thumb stroking a soothing pattern against Sherlock's t-shirt. "You okay?"

"When will she wake up?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the question.

John sighed and dragged a plastic chair closer, only to collapse onto it. "No idea. She must be exhausted. Mycroft filled out all the paperwork, by the way."

"It's his speciality," Sherlock replied. "He would make a wonderful secretary."

John smiled. "Probably," he agreed mildly.

"You tricked me." Sherlock turned to him, still holding Ava's hand. "Last night. You made me phone the ambulance because I thought it was more serious than it was."

John licked his lips, a nervous habit. "Yes," he admitted. "I would have been too calm. They'd never have sent it as quick."

"Good," Sherlock said. "Do that more often."

John laughed. "You are the only person I know who wouldn't think what I did requires a long and serious conversation."

"You put Ava's well-being above two minutes of my panicking." Sherlock screwed up his nose. "Surely we would need to talk if you hadn't done that."

John was grinning. "I love you," he said sounding almost giddy.

"And I approve of your deception," Sherlock replied.

John laughed again.

* * *

**23****rd**** May**

Ava was home. Home and safe and Sherlock couldn't let her out of his sight.

At night when she went to bed he would pace nervously until, after half an hour, he would sneak upstairs and sit in her bedroom just to check that she was breathing evenly. Twice he had found himself emptying all the cupboards and the fridge to check all the food was safe for her to eat.

John seemed to have attached himself to Ava. He had always been a demonstrative parent, but now he sat with her on his lap as they watched a film, would carry her on his hip to make tea.

"We're both bloody useless," John sighed as they both sat on the floor in her bedroom.

"It only takes one of us to watch," Sherlock pointed out logically.

Neither of them moved.

* * *

**25****th**** May**

Poppy Coleman had brain damage from the lack of oxygen.

Sherlock stared at Ava, watching as she giggled at something John had said. He still looked pale and shaken by the news.

What if Ava had been hurt that night, had lost part of what made her so Ava-like?

Would he have still cared for her the same?

Ava had her head resting on her arms. She turned it toward Sherlock and pulled a face at John's mother hen act.

Suddenly overwhelmed, Sherlock pressed a kiss to her forehead, beyond grateful that she wrinkled her nose at him as he did it.

"Why are you and Daddy being so silly today?" she asked, lifting her head in order to tilt it curiously.

Over her wild hair, Sherlock met John's eyes and held them for an age, neither of them able to say anything.

* * *

**26****th**** May**

After his third check of Ava for the night, Sherlock wandered back down.

"She's fine-"

John's laptop was open and he was staring pale-faced at the screen.

"What?" Sherlock demanded, striding over. "What's-"

John turned the screen to face him.

It was John's blog.

**Bored of big brother. Such a sweet looking family you all make…I do hope there aren't any skeletons in the closet…or floating up the river.**

**xxx**

No.

* * *

See - plot is occuring! Finally :P


	13. Chapter 12: May 26th to 27th

So, huge apologies for the delay! I am so very sorry and will not do that again when there's a cliff hanger! Also a huge thank you to those still reviewing and reading this despite the delay! :)

* * *

May 26th to 27th

No.

Sherlock stared at the message as if intense concentration would make the letters reform in some way.

**Bored of big brother. Such a sweet looking family you all make…I do hope there aren't any skeletons in the closet…or floating up the river.**

**xxx**

It didn't change.

Please, no.

Sherlock whirled to the door, grabbing at his coat with a hand that reached more out of habit than guided sight.

"Don't you dare-"

"Stay here," Sherlock ordered.

"Sherlock!" John yelled. "Do not walk out-"

But he couldn't not. Knowing that John couldn't and wouldn't leave Ava, Sherlock raced down the stairs, crashing through the door and hailing a taxi as soon as he could.

This, this was what he should have been prepared for, what he should have prevented. If he hadn't been so weak and sentimental he could have been tracking down the body and happily have left Ava in John's care.

Furious at himself, he barrelled out of the taxi and thrust the money through the window, heedless of the driver's annoyed yelp. He ran to the river edge, gripping onto the rails as he scanned down the edges.

Where…where would Moriarty have ensured the body was found?

It had to be close to the hotel. Moriarty would attempt to highlight every single link to John for the stupid idiots-

There was the sound of sirens in the distance.

Slowly, Sherlock turned toward them and listened, tracking the cars by the noise. Looking up along the banks along the most likely route the cars were heading, he stopped suddenly.

Something was on the shore.

He was far too far away to reach it before the police, and it would look even worse if he sauntered up to the body now. Nausea and terror suddenly welled up as he watched helplessly, the sirens sounding closer and closer.

No.

Furious, he hit out at the railings, using the momentum to push himself away and look up at the buildings towering over him.

Focus; he had to focus.

The officer on the scene, the primary investigator. He needed to know who it was.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he turned back, looking down and along the shore to stare at the figures moving in the dull light. He needed to get closer, to work out what was happening. Leaning over, he scanned the street ahead, judging how far away he would have to walk to search out one of the homeless network to-

"Rather a lot of them," a familiar voice said thoughtfully, a mocking attempt at concern.

"It would appear you're becoming a little over eager," Sherlock replied scathingly, not taking his eyes off the police on the bank. "Tell me, what was so boring about my brother? He has a secret service; that surely should have kept you busy for at least three months."

Moriarty stood next to him, staring down at the same sight. "Well," he said with what was probably a shrug. "I hate playing chess," he confessed. "All the back and forth and back and forth just to get one piece. And it's the only piece that matters, Sherlock; the king." There was a smile in his voice. "I'm tired of playing with pawns."

"Then why do this?" Sherlock asked, trying to keep his voice even and bored. "Why bother? John's a pawn in your little game."

"Now, now, Sherlock; I think we both know that's a filthy lie!" Moriarty's voice was dripping with glee. "See, all those years ago I when I wanted to defeat you I was looking at it the wrong way. You aren't the king in this game."

Sherlock barely restrained the flinch.

"John is."

"You said you hated chess." Sherlock watched as the lighting started to go up. Any second now…

"Call it a new game, then. You have three pieces. The king, the detective and the princess."

Ava.

Sherlock refused to let himself move.

"I have one," Moriarty chuckled. "Whoever said there was strength in numbers clearly never heard of divide and conquer."

Sherlock's fist flexed.

"I will make you choose," Moriarty breathed. "And we both know who you'll choose and we both know it will break him."

Sherlock swung around and then froze, a red light flickering in his eye and then lowering to his chest. He stared at it grimly.

There was no guarantee Moriarty would leave John and Ava alone if Sherlock forced him to shoot right that second.

"Dimmock," Moriarty announced brightly. "A fan of yours, isn't he?"

Dimmock wasn't the worst one Moriarty could have picked, Sherlock supposed. Still not the best one though.

It would have been too much to have hoped Lestrade would have taken the tip.

"Check." Moriarty smiled, backing away. "Your move, Sherlock."

* * *

The moment he opened the door he knew that John had gone. Mrs Hudson's door was open and the rooms beyond were dark, indicating she was upstairs, watching over Ava. Panicked, he gripped onto the edge of the door, not yet willing to close it behind him.

John had left.

Where, though? Where would he go? If he had intended to track Sherlock down then they would have bumped into each other long before now.

The blog…what would John do about the-

Heart hammering in his chest, a frantic beat that sounded like the drums playing at an execution, Sherlock swung back out the door.

* * *

Scotland Yard was a dull-looking building in Sherlock's opinion. The one thing that had ever made it stand out was the cubed sign at the bottom. Other than that it was too bright and sleek to be worth a second glance.

Now it seemed oddly sharp, threatening in a way he had never before seen.

He stormed in, past the reception desk and up. The lift would be quicker but it also meant inactivity, something that Sherlock didn't think he could bear in his present mood. Instead he used the stairs and, on the third floor, nearly ran nose first into Lestrade, who had solidly planted himself on the flat level between staircases.

"Get out of the way," Sherlock hissed.

"No." Lestrade gripped the railings firmly with white knuckles. "No, we need to talk before you go up there-"

"Is John-"

"You know he is."

Why? Why, why, why? It was the only word that managed to bounce around his head as he stepped back from Lestrade. Why had John gone to turn himself in? Why did he think that was a good idea? Why had he done it before talking to Sherlock?

Why had he, Sherlock, left when John needed him?

No.

Sherlock shook the questions away with a fierce snap of his head. "What has he said?" Sherlock demanded.

"Sherlock-"

"I need to know, I need to fix this," he snarled.

"No." Lestrade's hand shot out and grabbed at his coat, yanking him forward. "You bloody idiot, do you have any idea how bad this is?"

"John did not-"

"Not for John, for you!" Lestrade shook his head in disbelief. "Do you have any idea how much John is twisting things at the moment to avoid having you hauled up for perverting the course of justice?"

Who cared about that?

"He is not guilty-"

"Of course he isn't!" Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his face. "Jesus, do you think we're really that thick? Do you think there's an officer in the building who wouldn't work to find the evidence that John was coerced? That there's a lawyer in the land who couldn't sway the verdict?" Lestrade folded his arms. "You know how cases work, you've been in enough courtrooms."

Sherlock looked away.

"What would be the verdict? A doctor, a former soldier with a damn good military history, a single parent to boot? A father giving up his trained profession to ensure he was spending time with his child. You want to push it further? How about we have John Watson, beloved blogger, who had to watch his friend commit suicide? How about the fact that it's been public knowledge for years that Moriarty was real, that you were genuine, that he pushed you to fake your own death? John Watson is a lawyer's wet dream, you twat! His character is flawless, Moriarty is a proven nut-job. It's a story; feed it to anyone and they'd lap it up."

But there was a risk, Sherlock thought, staring at Lestrade, a risk that Moriarty could buy the jury again, that a judge could condemn, that evidence couldn't be found-

"You, on the other hand…" Lestrade shook his head. "You've been lying through your bloody teeth. Every fucking piece of evidence you've dug up will be dismissed; you're sleeping with him, it won't hold up. Every single thing you have done with this has just brought you and John one step closer to being convicted."

"That's absurd-"

"He's playing you!" Lestrade yelled. "How can you not see it? You've kept a murder hidden from the police! John may be beyond reproach but you have been painted with this brush before, Sherlock, people remember, people wonder. You wanted to know his plan? This! This is his plan! You've been digging your own poxy grave!"

No…That…that wasn't right…

"You've been lying on cases," Lestrade pushed further. "I've seen you do it, I've seen you take longer than you've ever taken. You want to know the next question that they'll ask? They ask what you did in those five years."

"It's of no concern-"

"Did you kill anyone?"

Sherlock blinked and then looked past Lestrade.

"Cameras are off," Lestrade said almost in a conversational tone. "I don't need the answer, but it's bloody obvious you were tracking Moriarty in those years. Maybe you were in contact with John? Maybe he was just doing what you told him to do-"

"Do not finish that obscene line of thought," Sherlock hissed. "I would never-"

"You should have come to me." Lestrade didn't back down. "Three months later is too fucking late. My team have already started to come to me with their doubts. Again. And the one part of John's life that is murky is you. The link to you gives the prosecution their own story to spin-"

"Do you think I would risk him with you?" Sherlock shook his head. "After last time? After your show of loyalty when Moriarty last played these games?"

Lestrade flinched. "You don't trust me," he snapped. "Why the hell should I trust you?"

It hurt. In the strangest way, it hurt and Sherlock couldn't even start to untangle his reaction. "Get out of my-"

"I trust John, though." Lestrade refused to move. "You are not going up there-"

"I need to-"

"Damn it, Sherlock, even I'm not going up there," Lestrade exploded. "None of us that have a link to John are. This needs to be above reproach, above suspicion. If we do this right, the way it should have been done, this may never even go to court."

What?

Sherlock blinked at Lestrade. "Do not patronise me-"

"If John can spin it, if John can mix the truth about that night with some wonderful lie about your…actions since April, if you stay out of it completely, if I stay out of it, we might just get lucky."

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. "No, Moriarty will interfere-"

"Dimmock is watching for that," Lestrade assured him. "He gave up the collar and tossed it to McGregor. You remember him, the one that refuses to work with you because you're such a dick?"

Vaguely. There were a few with that particular opinion.

"He's taken it. And this isn't some stranger off the street, this is John. The guy who makes you somewhat bearable to most of us nine times out of ten. The one who makes you properly laugh and relax."

"Do you seriously expect me to believe that the entirety of Scotland Yard is watching this because John makes me play nice on occasion?"

"No, I expect you to believe that it's because he makes you happy." Lestrade shook his head ruefully. "You aren't a saint, Sherlock, and half of us can't stand you. But you help us. You don't get paid, you give us the pieces to help give people answers, to help people find…" Lestrade shrugged. "Closure, I guess." He licked at his lips. "And…and we let you down. So yeah, you might not be getting an invite to the Christmas party but this is what we do, the long, gut-slogging, pain-in-the-arse, mind-numbingly dull evidence sift to prove what we all know. You know, like the boring cases you don't take? The ones that make up most of our work?"

Sherlock held on to the rails, not quite sure what to do in the midst of this information.

"You are shit at this," Lestrade pressed on. "At looking for the obvious answers, at watching CCTV for three days straight, at cross examining endless witness statements. At building a court case. You strut out of here before that starts. So back off and go home to that little girl before Moriarty realises he's just as thick as you are at spotting the really obvious thing."

Lost, Sherlock glanced up.

"I'll get him home safe," Lestrade promised, sounding a little softer suddenly. "But this is it, Sherlock. You stay away from the investigating officers, you stay out of this building and you do not even glance at this case. 'Cause if you're in it they will use you against John."

His head was spinning, thoughts battering against each other in a haze of information that was utterly suffocating.

He turned and began the descent back down the stairs.

* * *

"Is John not with you?" Mrs Hudson asked, looking as if she'd been wringing her hands for a large majority of the time he'd been gone.

Sherlock just shook his head and walked to the violin, lifting it up to his chin. "Go home," he said quietly.

"Sherlock?"

"Just…go home," he repeated, staring out the window and down at his brother's car.

The door closed softly behind her and he stared a little longer before dropping the violin from his chin and looking at it.

For the first time in his life he had no idea what to do.

* * *

Hours later, when pacing and even thinking proved to be equally unsuccessful options, he disobeyed his own rules and wandered up to Ava's room, scooping the little girl up into his arms and carrying her back down.

She barely stirred.

With John still at the Yard, Sherlock took Ava into their bedroom and laid her on the bed, curling up around her and stroking her hair in an easy rhythm.

It was paralysing. Every move he could make, every scenario contained risk for both Ava and John. Every single option.

It was not acceptable.

* * *

It was so quiet that Sherlock could make out the sound of the car pulling up. Of John getting out and of a quiet, muffled conversation taking place. The door opened and closed while the voices murmured.

Lestrade and Mycroft talking then? Who knew what they were discussing.

Oddly, though, Lestrade's voice sounded as if it were raised. Perhaps Mycroft was receiving the same dressing-down he had earlier.

It paled in significance when the bedroom door opened.

John looked exhausted, both mentally and physically. It hurt seeing him like that, but Sherlock didn't dare move, not wanting to disturb Ava or hurt John.

"She isn't a teddy bear," John said softly.

Sherlock looked away and pressed a kiss to Ava's hair, nodding slightly.

"I thought you'd be furious." John sighed as he sat on the bed. "I was gearing up for a proper row."

He wanted to be angry. Desperately wanted something other than this all-consuming…feeling; this gnawing, knowing ache in the pit of his stomach that this wouldn't be okay. That this would end badly.

"Sherlock?"

"You asked me once how likely it was that we would both survive this," Sherlock said, staring at the wall. "I let myself…forget…" He frowned, not knowing what to say or how to finish the thought. "I can think of no eventuality in which…" He broke off and looked down at his fingers as they tightened around Ava's arm and made her frown in her sleep.

John shifted closer. "Have you slept?" he asked, running a hand through his hair. "How long have you been working yourself to death over this?"

Sherlock shook his head; it was of no consequence. "I saw him tonight," he confessed, removing his hand from Ava in case the conversation led to further involuntary movements.

The hand on his head stopped and then, with some effort, started stroking again. "And?" John asked with a forced lightness to his tone.

"He's shifted his focus." The words should stir the fierce protective anger he'd felt earlier, but it was as if everything had suddenly burned away.

The thought made him shudder and tilt his head so his cheek was against Ava's hair as he watched John carefully.

If they all stayed in this position forever then everything would be fine.

"To?" John asked, snapping his thoughts back to their conversation.

"We're playing chess and you're the king."

John sighed and moved away. Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the opposite wall as he listened to John undress and get ready for bed. Hating John being that far away, Sherlock pulled Ava closer to his chest, curling around her as if to wrap her up in him.

Then John lay down on the other side of Ava, blocking Sherlock's view of the wall and draped a gentle arm over both of them. Ava gave a little sigh that sounded more like irritation than anything else and wriggled a little as if in protest to the pair of them surrounding her.

"You need to sleep," John soothed, shifting closer, a practised hand smoothing Ava's cheek and settling her. "Look, we're safe, both of us are here, with you. Mycroft's outside, and Lestrade didn't look as if he was going home any time soon." He smiled. "Mrs Hudson's downstairs, safest place in England with her around, right?"

No.

"You really need to sleep," John sighed. "If we're going to start working with Mycroft to get Moriarty-"

"No."

John blinked at him. "No?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No."

Everything in John's body language suggested he wanted to refute that statement, but John just started stroking his hair again, reaching back to switch off the light.

Somehow, in the early hours of dawn, Sherlock finally fell asleep to the soothing fingers running through his hair and the pulse beating in Ava's wrist safely monitored by his own hand.

* * *

"He said no?" Mycroft asked with disbelief. "Are you certain it was Sherlock lying in the bed?"

John said nothing, taking a sip of tea. The china cup rang out as he set it on the saucer.

God, he hated Mycroft's office. He would forever associate it with that awful week before Sherlock…fell. Give him an abandoned warehouse any day of the week.

It didn't help that Sherlock's expression as he lay in bed was burned into his retinas at the moment. The image of Sherlock curled up without the usual sulking glare was enough to make John's skin crawl. The blank, defeated look didn't suit him.

"He didn't see it," John decided eventually. "And now…it's as if he's terrified of making a move, of making a decision."

Mycroft raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "My brother has many flaws," he said with some derision in his voice. "Lack of confidence has never been and will never be one of them."

"Yeah? Then where is he?" John demanded. "You and I both know that if he were reacting normally he'd be over here, storming through your office and raging over your incompetence."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed.

"His words." John took another sip of the tea. "Not mine."

"He'll snap out of it," Mycroft decided. "It's merely a rare form of sulking. By nightfall he'll be irritating us all, I have no doubt."

"He saw Moriarty," John said, trying to keep his voice calm. "Apparently I'm the king in their little game now."

Mycroft stared at him and then leaned back, a small smile suddenly crossing his face.

"Thanks," John muttered into his cup.

"A chess analogy?" Mycroft seemed to be more and more pleased with the idea. "James Moriarty has slipped."

Really? John put the cup and saucer down. "Can we focus on one genius at a time?" he asked. "Your brother-"

"Oh, if Sherlock doesn't snap out of it soon then Mr Moriarty will do it for us. I have no doubt this was meant to make Sherlock see red and snap him back into the game. Likely there are contingency plans. No, Sherlock has missed something."

"All ears." John sat forward on the chair.

"The king is the most important player," Mycroft said with one of his mysterious half-smiles, "and yet he is always underestimated."

"How does that help?" John asked, sighing in frustration.

"Moriarty sees you as the trophy. The person to hold up to prove to Sherlock that he's lost. But tell me, John, if Sherlock were standing in front of you and James Moriarty were laughing in triumph, what would you do?"

That answer was easy.

"Kill him."

Mycroft leaned back. "And that, John, is why it helps."


	14. Chapter 13: May 31st

Author's Note

Apologies for the delay in this - I went mad and my poor beta has been a saint!

* * *

The sound of keys being angrily tossed onto the table made Sherlock look up from the television and suddenly hear the noise coming from it. He had barely realised it was on.

"You took Ava to school," he said quietly.

John stared down at the table, anger radiating from the lines of his back as he breathed in, ignoring the question.

"You checked the area?"

"No." John leaned his palms onto the table. "Mycroft has a team on the school."

"He'll find a way if he wants to." Sherlock curled up, rearranging his head on the pillow.

"I've seen military bases with less security," John snapped.

"He'll still find a way."

John looked up at the window, shoulders tensing further as he slowly shook his head. "I won't do this," he said, his voice thick with suppressed emotion. "I won't…" He hung his head again.

"He'll win."

John slammed his fist on the table and whirled around. "He'll win? He's already fucking won! You're sitting there afraid to do a bloody thing."

"There's nothing that can be done. Every play, every move-"

"I'm sick of this." John glared at him. "I'm so sick of hearing this. Of you and Mycroft looking at things like we're all puppets-"

"There is no other way of seeing this," Sherlock said as he sat up. "Check mate, John. Every move-"

John snarled in frustration and darted forward, yanking him bodily to his feet. Stunned at the display of temper, Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled through the kitchen, down the hallway and into their bedroom.

"Tell me," John said, shoving him in. "Tell me, was this a move you saw? Us? When you came back did you think this would happen?"

"John-"

"Did you think you would fall in love with me? Did you intend to love Ava? Tell me the odds that you would one day choose to go to a parents' evening, voluntarily?"

"This isn't-"

"How? How isn't it the same?"

"This was easy."

John laughed. "Easy? I made this easy for you, you twat! I fought for this, I bit my tongue, I swallowed back being a possessive dick about Ava. I forgave you for putting me through hell because life is too short. Lestrade thought I was mad, hell, Mrs Hudson gave me the number of a therapist. I made myself trust you again because I need you in my life.

"But more than that, Sherlock, I did it because I have never in my life backed down from a fight, no matter how foolish, how stupid, how unlikely my desired outcome. "

"Until October with Moriarty," Sherlock snapped.

John went rigid with fury and glared at him then turned, picked up his keys and slammed out of the flat.

* * *

_Follow him. SH_

_He will not appreciate it. MH_

_I don't care. SH_

* * *

_Can you think of any reason John would be on top of St Bart's? I have a team ready if you believe it to be the worst. MH_

Sherlock stared at his phone and then slowly rolled off the sofa.

_Pick Ava up from school and keep her with you. SH_

* * *

Outside of the door, Sherlock paused, hand clenching around the handle. Images swirled in his head of the last time he'd been here. Jim Moriarty's delighted smile, the way the wind had buffeted him on the ledge, the nagging doubt that something might go wrong.

John.

He opened the door.

A stupid, unreasonable part of him expected to see John sitting where Moriarty had sat. Instead, John was sitting on the rough ground next to the door with his back to the wall.

"Mycroft has better things to do than follow me around all day," John said quietly.

Sherlock slid down next to him, not saying anything.

"I get it," John said with a sigh, tilting his head back slightly, "I do. In October when Moriarty…I felt so trapped. I had Ava's entire life in the palm of my hand, riding on my every move. I can't even imagine what it feels like to have two lives on you. But…I could have asked for help. I could have gone to Mycroft, to Lestrade, I just never even thought about it. I've never seen you like this before; you never focus on a problem like this.

"And you do have people who want to help. Look at the last time you were here: you and Molly managed to find a way out of an impossible situation."

"It hurt you," Sherlock said, staring at the ledge.

"I lived," John said in a wry tone.

"I can't…" Sherlock frowned. "I can't do this and…I can't think and feel at the same time. And yet I can't stop doing either."

"You remember when Ava was in hospital?" John asked. "When I tricked you into making that call?"

"This wouldn't be the same." Sherlock shifted. "I'm not entirely sure I could do this again. Lie to you, make you watch."

John shrugged. "I'm a better actor than you give me credit for. And you never have any problem eliciting a response. We could manage. And as long as you didn't leave it five years again," he added with a glare, "I'd get over it. Again."

Sherlock stood slowly, the floor grit crackling under his shoes as he walked over to the edge. "You understand that he has tried to kill me three times?"

"Three?" John asked, the direction of his voice confirming to Sherlock that he hadn't moved. "The pool, here and where else?"

"When he discovered I was alive. He blew up the building I'd just had a…meeting in." Sherlock shook his head. "That can likely be dismissed; it was an impetuous decision-"

"What are you talking about?"

"He likes symmetry." Sherlock stared down at the ledge, then further over. "He likes things done correctly. If there is a surprise it's simply an extra challenge to make it fit into his plans-" Sherlock looked up. "You're the king."

"I am going to beat you all to death with a chess board," John muttered, his voice coming from a higher level as if he'd stood up.

"No." Sherlock whirled around. "Three places: here, the pool and the college. The beginning, middle and end."

John looked unimpressed. "Would you mind-"

"What does that mean? It means something..." Sherlock tapped his foot on the ledge.

"Seriously, just step back-"

"I'm thinking." Sherlock hopped up on the ledge and paced. "Staying alive, I shouldn't have stayed alive…should I…no…"

"Just…please, Sherlock-"

Sherlock batted a hand in John's direction. "That look…you're the king. End games…bare king."

"Sherlock get down…wait, bare king?" John sounded horrified. "I am not getting naked!"

What?

Sherlock blinked at him. "It's a chess move, you idiot."

"Great." John nodded. "Do you really have to be up there to-"

"Oh!" Sherlock breathed. "Yes. Together."

A hand yanked at him, bodily pulling him backwards and off the ledge so he stumbled into John. "I was pacing," Sherlock complained.

"On a bloody ledge!" John hissed. "Pace down here if you must."

"I've…I've looked at this wrong," Sherlock breathed, detaching himself from John. "I thought…oh, he didn't want to beat me-"

"I swear to God if you don't start putting some exposition into your sentences I am going to wallop you one." John folded his arms. "Full sentences please."

"He was giving me a choice." Sherlock almost laughed in delight. "Oh…I didn't see-"

"To do what?" John sounded as if he were seconds away from hitting him.

"That day, he gave me a choice."

"What? To let us die? You can be a heartless wanker at times but even then you wouldn't have-"

"It was illogical," Sherlock corrected. "To jump. All I had was his word that he wouldn't shoot, I would have had no way of ensuring he kept his word and no prior evidence that he would do anything but change his mind. I was being hunted, people were turning against me. What incentive did I have to choose to jump and take a risk which would be ultimately pointless?"

"I…" John winced. "I guess-"

"He's bored, he's always been bored. He wanted me to play properly, to be without rules and restrictions. To choose him." Sherlock let out a triumphant breath. "But he knew, he knew that I'd play him, that I wouldn't accept I only had two options." He could almost see himself jumping off the roof, arrogantly swaggering over to Moriarty. "We're the same…" he almost laughed. "He had to make me accept I only had two options."

"But you chose a third option," John said, dawning comprehension sounding in his voice. "You kept it going."

"Yes." Sherlock nodded. "Nothing went to plan that day, nothing at all." He laughed. "He wants to fix it. A random attack won't satisfy him."

"He wants to make you choose again?" John asked. "Isn't it obvious now?"

"Yes." Sherlock shook his head. "But this will be different… He'll be punishing me, showing me how weak my choice will be. He'll want to make it as painful as possible. "

"That gives us some protection though, right?" John asked, clinging to the one good thing about the news. "I mean, gunning us down in the street won't have the same meaning. There's no finesse to that. No choice."

"Indeed." And this he could do, this he could play with. Moriarty didn't want to win; he wanted to teach Sherlock a lesson.

He could play this game with Moriarty.

He looked at John hesitantly. "I need to…to do this I will need to be selfish. Obsessive-"

"So basically you?" John asked with a grin.

"You'll understand," Sherlock sighed, "when I have to just think. That I'll apologise later, but Ava-"

"Won't," John sighed. "No," he agreed.

Sherlock sat on the ledge.

"Is that you reacting to the idea you'll have to occasionally apologise?" John asked, sitting down next to him.

Sherlock shook his head and watched as John reached out and laced their hands together.

"Take a few days," John suggested quietly. "Then…I'll take care of her. And when you're able, when you need a break, come home."

"You have the Simone case," Sherlock replied woodenly, clenching tightly onto John's fingers.

"And you have Moriarty." John let out a breath. "Divide and conquer, eh?"

Amused, Sherlock turned to look at him. "Moriarty said that. I think you both have entirely different interpretations of the saying."

John laughed and then sighed. "You look like you again," he said, humming with some satisfaction.

Sherlock nodded and then frowned, suddenly realising where they were sitting. "Ah," he said, glancing over his shoulder and down. "You are dealing with this remarkably well."

"Strangely, this feels more comfortable than the pavement." John scooted to the side a little to peer backwards between them. "Can…"

"Ask," Sherlock said, watching him carefully.

"It's really not appropriate," John muttered, fingers tracing the ridge between the concrete slabs that made up the ledge.

Sherlock waited.

"What was it like? Falling?"

"The sensation?" Sherlock queried and then hummed when John nodded. "Cold," he decided. "And strangely…exhilarating."

John remained thoughtful.

"Though tempered by the fact I was trying to process and remain in control of several events at once," Sherlock added.

"I think I'm ready," John said slowly. "Go on, oh great one. How did you do it? Your finest moment?"

The moment, the one he had stubbornly wanted ever since he had conceived his greatest plan.

And suddenly he found he couldn't care less.

"I asked a very interesting man to be my flatmate," Sherlock said, leaning forward, "and somehow made him fall in love with me."

John softened and smiled. "Prat," he muttered as he leaned forward and kissed him.

"A magician never reveals his secrets," Sherlock murmured against his mouth.

"I'll change your mind," John challenged, manoeuvring them both back onto the gritty surface of the roof.

"You can certainly try."

John grinned and leaned Sherlock back so he was lying down.

On the rough, scratchy ground that wasn't comfortable by any stretch of the imagination. John hissed and sat back, glaring at his raw hands.

"Only you would pick this bloody roof," John huffed, clearly trying not to giggle.

"Strangely, fornication was not at the front of my mind when I invited Moriarty up here."

"It better not have been." John glared at the ground and then sighed. "Have to do it in bed when we get in."

"How tragic." Sherlock sat up, wrapping his arms around his knees as he looked around.

"I'll ask Molly," John threatened suddenly.

"For sex? If you want to attempt it in the morgue I'm sure I could-"

"For the grand plan, Sherlock. I have no interest in having sex in the morgue."

Sherlock shifted closer to him. "Very well," he said as he wrapped himself around John and, almost six years after he jumped, finally explained.

* * *

"May I ask what gave you the idea to attempt intercourse up here?" Sherlock asked as the sky grew dark. They were sitting on the ledge again.

"You." John shrugged. "You were the one who mentioned me being naked."

"I did?"

"Bare king."

"It's a chess move," Sherlock insisted.

"Sounds like it."

"It's version on an endgame. Have you ever played where you end up with just the two kings chasing each other around the board?"

"Once or twice," John said, nodding.

"That's called a bare king."

"So he wants me to watch you when he makes you choose?" John said slowly. "Watch as I should have done all those years ago."

"You played your part spectacularly then. And yes. I believe Moriarty knows that would…that would hurt."

"Why?" John asked, then sighed when Sherlock threw him a filthy look. "I know why it would…I just meant, why not come after me? I'm sure you'd be equally upset by my death."

"Because it will make it even more apparent," Sherlock said slowly, "how much I have changed, how far I have fallen in his eyes, how sick with feeling I have become..." He shook the idea away. "Besides he loves an audience." The sheer joy in Moriarty's eyes whenever he'd performed made Sherlock sure of that. "And of course, should he kill you my reactions would be…unpredictable. And not in the way he wants."

"You don't think I'd do the same?" John asked, frowning in annoyance.

"No, you have Ava-"

No.

"Bare king," Sherlock whispered. "Nonononono-"

"Sherlock?" John sounded panicked. "What-"

"You'd be the only one left." Sherlock turned to John, horrified, as he watched John pale.

"Oh God," John murmured. "Ava."

"What would you do?" Sherlock breathed. "If both of us-"

"Well, I sure as fuck wouldn't miss," John snapped.

Sherlock tried to control his breathing. "It won't happen." He swallowed over the sudden thickness in his throat. "You made me promise once that no matter what happened she'd come first. That if given the choice I'd choose her over you-" His voice wavered slightly at the word.

Choice.

John stood up, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not losing either of you," he snarled.

Nor was Sherlock.

"John."

John looked over, eyes desperate and dark in his ashen face.

"I swear to you," Sherlock said, standing. "I swear that no matter what happens, she won't be touched by him."

John looked away and then suddenly gave him a strange look as if trying to work something out. "You can't promise me that," he said slowly. "He…we both know he is going to make you choose to hurt me and he knows the one thing that would hurt the most."

There were times that Sherlock wished John was as stupid as everyone else. "And he'll make you watch as I do it," he said softly. "But it won't happen," he said firmly. "I won't…I played him once and I can do it again. I will not let him do this."

John's eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth to say something. Then stopped, blinking.

"That's why it matters," he said under his breath, looking oddly pensive.

"What-"

His phone alarm went off.

Sherlock scrabbled in his pocket and stared at the screen, which showed a distinctly not Mrs Hudson-shaped man climbing the stairs to Ava's room.

"We need to go home. Now."

* * *

"Sherlock," John said, nodding at the building opposite.

"Not now. Ava-"

"Look." John's voice was like the crack of a gun.

Up above, the light was on in the flat where Mycroft's round-the-clock protection was headquartered. There was a slumped figure at the window.

"I am going to kill him," Sherlock breathed, turning back to the door.

"Mycroft or Moriarty?"

"Pick one," Sherlock hissed as he threw the door open and let it bang in a satisfying manner against the wallpaper.

Mrs Hudson was in the hallway, looking terrified. "There's a man with Ava…he won't let me up or out or he'll-"

John pushed past Sherlock, who tried to grab at him, but John could be surprisingly deft when he wanted to be and wriggled out of Sherlock's grasp, then up.

"Moriarty?" Sherlock confirmed.

Mrs Hudson nodded. "I'm sorry-"

"Is Ava here?"

"Yes, Mycroft dropped her off, he said he was busy," she sniffed. "I didn't know-"

"It's his fault," Sherlock said, "not yours." He gave her shoulder a squeeze.

"I couldn't find the gun," she whispered.

John had it then. John always seemed to carry it these days. Pressing a kiss to her cheek, he went upstairs.

Moriarty seemed to view the flat as a bloody café. A location to sit and chat and discuss matters as if they were business partners dividing up assets.

"Did you have fun up there, Sherlock?" Moriarty's distinctive tone echoed from the living room. "Or was it just a little bit disappointing the second time around?"

Sherlock stepped into the room.

John was standing, glaring down at Moriarty with his arms folded. The Irish man just beamed up at John from the chair like a delighted child.

"Call your pet to heel," Moriarty suggested.

"John," Sherlock said quietly.

John looked over his shoulder, a question in his eyes as to whether they should act out some drama.

Sherlock shook his head and John stepped back.

"There was tea last time I was here," Moriarty said, looking around. "Standards are slipping" - he glanced at John - "monumentally."

"Why are you here?" John snapped.

"You haven't been playing, Sherlock," Moriarty said, as if John were inconsequential.

"You haven't produced a game," Sherlock replied.

Moriarty smirked and tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair, raising his brows playfully.

Sherlock flickered his eyes in distaste from the fingers to Moriarty's dawning grin.

"I can see why you were so taken with me." Moriarty settled back, wriggling his fingers as if he'd just performed a magic trick. "It's fun to create the puzzle, but to solve it? I had so much fun in February and March." He glared at John. "You ruined it."

"I didn't send out the order to have me shot," John said tightly.

"Ooh..." Moriarty sat forward. "I do love it when he gets some bite in him. Tell me, is that what makes the sex almost bearable?"

Dull. Even John sighed in a pained manner.

"Hm..." Moriarty looked pensive. "Then I can't figure it out. I thought your rule was only when high and to gain information."

That John did react to. He froze and then swung his head to Sherlock, eyes wide in the low light from the lamps.

"Oops, did I say more than I should have?" Moriarty grit his teeth, oozing false sincerity. "My bad."

"You didn't come here to talk about my sex life." Sherlock shot a look at John, who glanced away, clearly trying to refocus.

"No, I came here to talk about mine." Moriarty crossed his legs and settled back. "Your brother is boring. Completely vanilla. I want you back. I want you to play, Sherlock, and I want an agreement right now or I will call upstairs and paint the wall with little girl brains."

It took an obscene amount of effort to barely react to that statement. "You want me to create a game?"

"I want an endgame." Moriarty stood, brushing himself off as if he might have picked up some deadly disease sitting in the chair. "Think you're up to it?"

Sherlock couldn't look at John. Wouldn't tear his eyes from Moriarty as the man stepped close.

"I'll burn him to nothing," Moriarty whispered against his ear. "And you'll watch."

"Get your minion out of my flat." Sherlock snapped each syllable with pure venom. "And I promise you, I will give you the final solution to your problems."

Moriarty smiled and called up the stairs. "Come along, dear," he said sweetly, then turned to John. "Always a pleasure, Dr Watson."

When the man above appeared on the staircase John moved, almost quicker than Sherlock could follow. Within seconds he had Moriarty against the wall, the gun to his forehead.

The man froze.

"Want to risk it?" Moriarty asked with a giggle. "Kill me and he'll go straight back up those stairs."

"Point a gun at my daughter again and I will." John threw him to the side, then turned, walking up the stairs and brushing past the man on his way up to Ava.

"Leashes," Moriarty said in a musing tone as he watched John. "I can't recommend them enough."

Sherlock said nothing, staring at the henchman as he walked downstairs. Married, sick wife. Another ex-military man who was unhappy with his role but wouldn't be swayed.

Disappointingly not a valid villain.

He waited until the door had shut and then counted carefully before he went downstairs.

"They left," Mrs Hudson said, sounding a little calmer. "Is-"

"Yes. He's gone. Go to sleep," he ordered as he strode out of the door and closed it behind him.

* * *

Across the street he let himself in to the building and made his way up the stairs.

Emma Patter was on the floor, staring accusingly up from where she lay, blood pooling around her. At the window her partner was slumped over the window sill, the knife used to gut her in his back.

He'd been placed there, Sherlock thought as he closed the door again, and set off down the stairs. Moriarty had wanted him to know.

And he'd wanted to make it clear that Mycroft wasn't looking. Which led to the question: exactly what had his brother been doing last night?

* * *

John had brought Ava down into their room by the time Sherlock returned. She seemed to be spending more time there than in her own room.

"Was she awake?" Sherlock asked.

"No." John shook his head. "Thank God."

"He still thinks my only link to her is you," Sherlock said, closing the door.

John glanced at him and then looked around suspiciously. "You don't think he left any bugs?"

"No. It's poor gamesmanship to start early."

John pulled Ava closer to him. "Christ sake," he muttered into her hair. "I can't decide whether that pisses me off or makes me feel better."

"Mycroft was meant to watch her."

That seemed to surprise John. "You mean he wasn't downstairs? I thought that was where you'd gone."

"No. I went to the flat opposite. Both dead, both staged to draw attention. Mycroft isn't even looking in our direction."

A short, humourless laugh exploded from John. "Typical. Can't get rid of the git when we want some privacy but the second we actually need his beady eye…what's he doing?" he asked fiercely.

"I'll find out," Sherlock said, sitting on the end of the bed. "Are you sure she's-"

Softening, John shifted Ava so Sherlock could see her peacefully sleeping face. "See? She's fine."

But it wasn't enough to see her. Sherlock leaned forward, a hesitant hand reaching out to the soft skin of her arm, touching as if to reassure himself she wouldn't suddenly vanish.

"He aimed the gun at her?" he asked, trying to keep his voice low.

As if unable to bear the thought, John nodded shakily.

"I'm going to wring Mycroft's neck," Sherlock hissed, furious. "I swear-"

In John's arms, Ava stirred, the tone of his voice rousing her. "Daddy?" she mumbled, turning into John's jacket.

"Shush," John soothed, stroking her hair as she nuzzled into his chest. "Sorry, Daddy…" He raised his eyes to Sherlock's. "Daddy had a nightmare and needed a hug."

"Why's Sherlock all the way over there?" Ava asked, sounding as if she were sulking. "He has to be closer to hug."

John's eyes hadn't dropped from Sherlock's gaze. "You really do make an excellent point," he said, holding out a hand to Sherlock.

Swallowing back the fragile something that was building fiercely in his chest, Sherlock crawled forward, wrapping around Ava and John until his head was on John's shoulder. Ava grumbled and pulled his arm up until, instead of draping loosely, it was tight around them.

"Bossy," Sherlock whispered.

"Your fault." John winked at him and then pulled him as close as possible.

Sherlock breathed them both in. "I wanted those few more days," he said softly, clutching at John and illogically wishing he could stop time.

"I know." John tightened his grip. "Tonight. We don't have to do anything until morning."

Sherlock lifted his head and pressed his lips to John's neck, to his lips, until their foreheads were pressed together and their heads were bowed over Ava's.

"Yuck," Ava murmured, sounding half asleep.

John chuckled wetly and tilted his head back, eyes bright, and Sherlock closed his eyes to the sight.

* * *

Author's Note:

Phew! Exposition sucks!


	15. Chapter 14: June 1st

_Hi!_

_I'm feeling very sheepish here because that's the second time I've left such a huge update gap. But Swissmiss has been amazing and for the first time in ages I have written two chapters in a weekend for this fic and am buzzing to write the next one. I am going to stick to weekly updates (every monday for this) unless I get very ahead of myself._

_Thank you so much to those who reviewed. I have no idea who i replied to and who I didn't but I want tou to know that all the reviews are hugely appreciated, as is the patience of anyone still reading and checking this for updates. You're all lovely for sticking with this._

_I would suggest reading "Tea and Coffee" if you want to see the confrontation between Sherlock and Mycroft. Not a huge amount of point in writing that again from Sherlock's pov so this chapter takes place almost immediatly after that scene in "Tea and Coffee"._

* * *

**1st June**

Ava was scowling at the table when Sherlock got back in. Her little face was scrunched up tight and the bottom lip was fully out as she sat, huddled up in her dressing gown.

Without thought, Sherlock placed a kiss to her messy hair, inhaling the smell of her as John sighed and turned from the sink.

"Sulk as much as you like, Ava, you are going to school."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, still close behind her. "She should stay home."

Ava, as if sensing a sudden and new opportunity had arisen, snuggled back, allowing Sherlock to catch a glimpse of the pleading eyes and hopeful smile as she perked up. "I want to stay with Sherlock," she said petulantly.

John's eyes slid up from Ava to Sherlock and then back down again. "No," he said, drying his hands. "You are not getting out of this assembly."

There was a small pause, and then Ava turned to look up at Sherlock, as if seeking his confirmation. Over her head, John fixed Sherlock with a look then flicked his gaze downwards towards 221c, where Sherlock had dumped the folders he had liberated from his careless brother earlier that morning.

Accepting the point, with some reluctance, Sherlock nodded and then blinked when he realised Ava was still staring up at him, waiting for his answer.

Not entirely sure why she was still staring up at him, Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Do as your father says," he suggested.

The cereal in front of her received a rather brutal stab with the spoon. "I don't want to go to assembly," she whined. "Mr Calder talks a lot," she added, as if this were an apocalyptic level of concern.

"You'll live," John said, without an ounce of sympathy. "Finish your breakfast please."

Ava scowled down at her bowl as Sherlock took the seat next to her. "Did you get what you needed?" John asked, flicking the kettle on.

Wordlessly, Sherlock held up the bruised knuckles he had received from hitting Mycroft. It was gratifying that John understood immediately.

"Ah." John nodded. "Hard?" he asked, not sounding to upset at the idea.

"Not nearly as hard as the situation warranted," Sherlock replied, thinking of the shocked and concerned look Mycroft had given him afterwards. "He had no idea when I walked in what had happened." Absently, he let his hand reach out and stroke Ava's hair, hating the thought of what so easily could have occurred last night.

John's gaze followed him, a steely agreement lurking within the depths. "I'll get madam off to school-"

Ava lifted her head and glared. "Are you talking about me?" she asked, the bottom lip threatening a pout.

John stared at her and then sighed, "Cereal, Ava, otherwise we'll be late."

It wasn't exactly 'good' that Sherlock felt a pang of amused pride when Ava slowed down even more.

"If you miss it, I will personally ask this Mr Calder to give you a private assembly," John threatened, looking exhausted.

Ava paused, as if trying to gauge how likely the threat was, then proceeded to eat at a slightly faster than normal pace. John, his face flickering in relief, yawned.

"Go back to bed," Sherlock said, watching him.

"I'm fine," John argued.

"John." The tone seemed to make John blink. "Did you sleep?"

"You didn't," John replied, pouring the hot water. "I'm fine."

"You didn't sleep?" Ava asked with something that sounded like awe. "At all?" A worrying, thoughtful look crossed her face. "You can do that?" she asked, clearly intrigued by the idea that darkness did not automatically mean you had to sleep.

"_You_ can't," John said quickly, dumping the tea bags. "It's not fun, Ava."

The awe slipped into worry as Ava glanced between them with a look that was shocking in its likeness to Mrs Hudson's concerned gaze. "I'll look after you," she declared, lifting her chin.

John's lips twitched and the tense shoulders ebbed a little. Sherlock snorted, trying to imagine being force fed jelly beans and chocolate milkshake.

"No, sweetheart," John said, his tone far more at ease than it had been. "We just need you to go to school." He looked up at the clock. "And get dressed," he added.

Surprisingly, Ava obeyed, sliding out from the chair and dashing off upstairs.

"I'll take her," Sherlock said as the racket on the stairs faded.

"You have things to-"

"John."

He didn't want to plead; he could hear it threatening in his voice. Startled, John blinked at him and then let out a long sigh and seemed to hesitate.

"What?"

"I…can we all go?" John said slowly.

That sounded even better. Sherlock nodded as John leaned forward and pressed the tea into his hand and a gentle kiss to his lips.

* * *

Ava seemed delighted by them both walking her to school. Catlike, she twisted her way in between them, as if unable to decide whom she wanted to walk with or talk to, or whom she was happier at having with her.

Amusing though it was, John was clearly struggling with her enthusiasm, shattered as he was. Scooping Ava up, Sherlock settled her on his hip and let her chat to him with her head on his shoulder.

"Just gonna have a word with Mrs Parker," John said and pressed a kiss to Ava's forehead. "I'll see you after school," he told her.

"Is Daddy mad?" Ava asked quietly as John walked off.

"He's upset," Sherlock said, shifting her a little. "And tired."

"Because of his nightmare?" Ava asked.

He'd thought she would have been too sleepy to have remembered the story from last night. "Yes," he replied, tightening his grip on her.

"Silly," Ava declared. "It was just a dream," she dismissed. "And nothing can scare Daddy," she said seriously.

"No?" Sherlock asked with amusement.

"No." Ava looked absolutely certain in her belief. "He's too brave."

He would have to be, Sherlock thought, unable to let go of Ava. Everything depended on them not losing their heads to panic.

Ava, with the attention span of a gnat, spotted something and wriggled to escape Sherlock's hold.

He tightened his grip.

Looking surprised, Ava stared at him in sheer confusion. "I want to see Emma," she said with a frown, not understanding why he was holding onto her so tightly.

It was monumentally hard to let go of her, to let her slide to the playground and then watch her dash off to her friends. They all looked so tiny, so unprotected as they stood in their summer school uniforms and fidgeted around while chatting at the speed of light.

He stood and watched, drinking in the sight of her, hating that it would be an age before he saw her like that again. Just one more thing Moriarty had stolen.

"Talked to Mrs Parker and the head," John said, coming to stand next to him as the children lined up. "I've told them that only you, me, Mycroft and Mrs Hudson are to pick her up. I explained some of it."

It was almost disappointing that he hadn't been present for that conversation. "You told them that we are playing the game of a criminal genius who wants us to suffer and may use Ava to achieve that goal?"

"No, I said that you'd pissed someone off," John replied easily. "Strangely they didn't find that hard to believe at all!"

"I imagine," Sherlock said, keeping his gaze fixed on Ava as she giggled with a little boy towards the back of the line. "This is painful," he sighed. "I know he won't come for her today and yet..." He shook his head and the thoughts away as John shifted next to him and then took his hand and squeezed.

"She's happy," John murmured. "I won't let him take that from her as well."

Sherlock nodded slowly as the lines followed their teachers inside. "We need to stop going in to her at night," he frowned. "She remembered our conversation with her."

The hand squeezed tighter. "I'm sorry," John said eventually. "I'm sorry you have to do this."

"It's worth it," Sherlock replied, tearing his gaze away from the door Ava had disappeared through to look at John.

The faintest smile twitched across John's mouth. "Ready to start?"

Sherlock looked past him to the school building and nodded.

* * *

It was a source of comfort that John was happy to walk in silence and ignore Sherlock's odd mutterings to himself. Incessant chattering when he was trying to think was always irritating.

Though he had become far more patient with A-

No.

He couldn't think about that now.

"Car," John muttered as they walked down Baker Street.

Mycroft then. As they'd left he'd glanced at the window opposite that had housed the dead agents and hadn't been surprised to note that it all looked ordinary again. Mycroft had clearly tracked down what had happened last night after the confrontation in his office.

The car hadn't been there long. Doubtless Mycroft had just poured a cup of tea and was waiting in the prim and proper manner that was engineered to annoy Sherlock.

Except that he wasn't. Instead, Mycroft was standing at the window, staring out at the street below when they walked in.

"You are aware that the agents had families. Leaving them in the room was hardly respectful to the people that had died for you."

"They died because you were too busy swinging your umbrella around," Sherlock snapped. "And I am not giving those files back."

"I very much doubted that you would," Mycroft replied, still not turning. "I take it Ava was not harmed."

"I'd have let John hit you if she had been," Sherlock said, watching John's face carefully. His partner had folded his arms and was glaring furiously, usually a sign that John didn't trust himself not to lash out if his hands were free.

Mycroft turned and looked over at John. "Ah, I see. My apologies, Dr-"

"What the hell were you doing?" John demanded. "You knew we weren't in the flat-"

"My job is not as easy as the two of you appear to think it is." Mycroft raised his chin. "It was a difficult evening-"

"Shocking." Sherlock threw himself into the chair. "I am no longer surprised by your priorities-"

"I have been," Mycroft snapped uncharacteristically. "You charged me with bringing Moriarty to justice, with keeping your family safe as well as needing me to pull strings for your schemes and keep my job. You have no idea what I have done to keep you all at the top of the pile-"

"Clearly very little," Sherlock snarled. "He had a gun to Ava's head."

Mycroft paled. "A gun?" he breathed. "How-"

"A threat." Sherlock sat back. "A clear threat as to what would happen if I didn't play-"

"Then perhaps you shouldn't have been quite so pathetic last week-"

"Enough."

They both turned to look at John, who stood squarely, an unmovable force in the middle of the room. "Enough," John repeated. "It's done. I assume we all agree we don't want to repeat last night?"

"Of c-"

"Shut up," John snapped at Mycroft. "You too," he added when Sherlock gleefully opened his mouth. "And while I get that this might cause hell to freeze over, you two need to realise that we have to do this together. All three of us. I swear to God, if I have to look you two in here for the rest of the day to get you to realise this, then I damn well will."

"That is unnecessary," Mycroft said hastily, "and impractical."

Sniffing at the idea, Sherlock nodded. "As soon as he admits he was wrong-"

"I was not wrong-" Mycroft sounded as if he were gathering steam again.

"Lazy then," Sherlock breathed. "No change there."

"Just because you choose to dash around all day, looking as if you are busy, does not mean that you-"

The door clicked shut and a lock sounded.

The both stared at the door for a moment as the other one sounded too. "How tedious," Mycroft sighed. "Unlock it, I have no wish to spend the day debating with you."

Smirking at the idea Mycroft hadn't a clue how to pick a lock, Sherlock flounced over to the door and bent to the lock, then frowned. A tap and a shake confirmed that not only had John left the key in the lock, but he was also in the process of taping the key in place so that it couldn't be popped out.

"John." Sherlock pushed against the door. "You have made your point-"

"No." John sounded almost amused on the other side. "I think in an hour I will have made my point."

"We are wasting time," Sherlock declared, trying the other door.

"Once I've done this, I'm reading the files," John said, the sound of tape tearing accompanying his voice. "Then I will fill you in and you can listen to every other word, call me a moron and declare that there is an obvious solution."

"John..." Sherlock scratched at the door. "I will have no compunction about strangling him if he talks too much."

"Then we'll lose."

The flat tone made Sherlock frown at the door. "He's not that clever," Sherlock complained. "He just seems it because he's a nosy interfering-"

"Great." John's voice rose as if he were standing up. "You get on with that then."

And then there were footsteps on the stairs, fading away slowly.

With a last glare at the door, Sherlock turned to Mycroft, who had sat down and was looking wholly unimpressed with the idea. "Can I at least hope this will put you off of visiting more often?" he asked.

"Tell him we need the bathroom." Mycroft leaned back, bored.

"I can guarantee you that the answer will be that we have both a sink and windows."

Mycroft's mouth curled in distaste. "What a wonderful choice in mate you have made."

"At least I have one."

It was a useless comment and Mycroft seemed only amused by it. "Really, Sherlock? Are we teenagers again now?"

"Ah, yes, remember that time you didn't pay attention to your own operation that was meant to be monitoring the safety of my daughter?"

Cool eyes flickered with some emotion. "Your daughter?"

It was possibly the first time he had said the words without hesitation or thinking. "Yes," he said firmly, unwilling to let it go. "Problem?"

Mycroft let out a long breath. "You truly do pick the worst times to engage in sentimentality."

"There's hardly a good time to do it." Sherlock flopped into the chair opposite.

Mycroft seemed to study him and then tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. "There was an international crisis yesterday at half past four. An agent's mission was compromised and there were many with ruffled feathers and egos. I don't believe I saw anything other than the phone and MI6 for the next six hours. They are also rather strict about the types of phone calls that can go in and out of the office. It may shock you to realise, Sherlock, but setting up your protection wasn't entirely sanctioned by those I work for."

"Those you work for are idiots," Sherlock said with a scowl. "You knew we weren't home-"

Mycroft actually banged his fist onto the leather. "As did you, Sherlock. I am not here to be your back-up option when you and John wish to have a conversation in the last place you faked a suicide."

"It's hardly as if I do that every other week-"

"Why can you accept it is hard for John to see you there and not for me?"

"Caring is not an advantage," Sherlock hissed. "I fail to believe that you could experience such a thing merely due to proximity to a past and forged event."

"We are digressing." Mycroft looked away. "The point is, I cannot always be your back-up option, Sherlock, especially when you just assume I will be and do not inform me of the fact."

"Because your job is more important-"

"I will not be lectured by you when it is your job that is entirely to blame for this mess."

Sherlock sat back, grinding his teeth. "You believe I am to blame for this."

Mycroft was silent as he looked back, a thousand and one things passing over his face and only a few that Sherlock could read. "You adore attention, Sherlock. Have done since the moment you entered this world. You cannot resist the urge to prove you are better than anyone else, you cannot keep your work in the shadows and nor do you want to. James Moriarty would have always come for you, but you escalated this, you made this into what it now is, and you have the audacity to blame me because for one night I dealt with an international crisis rather than play babysitter without being asked."

Sherlock stared past Mycroft and through the window behind.

The heavy silence between them stretched on. So thick was it that both of them turned to look at the door when they heard John's footsteps coming back up the stairs and the crash of folders to the floor as John then followed. The door gave a jump of movement as John leaned back against it.

"Still alive?" John called, sounding utterly unconcerned.

"Indeed," Mycroft replied when Sherlock made no move to reply. "Did you at least send the driver home?"

"Nope. Sent him to get a Chinese though."

"He is not your takeout service provider," Mycroft started to hiss.

"The car hasn't left." Sherlock stared at the window. "He's attempting to be glib." He stared at Mycroft and then frowned. "Mycroft agrees with you that this is my fault Moriarty is targeting us," he called to John through the door.

"I was under the impression that was far too obvious for either of you to bother with," John replied, his muffled voice sounding distracted as he read.

Mycroft's mouth tilted in amusement.

For some reason it sounded far more acceptable coming from John. Far less like blame and far more like simple fact.

The silence continued. If Sherlock concentrated hard enough, he could hear the scrape of paper when John turned the page behind the door and when he shifted.

Idiot man, sitting on the floor like that. He was a walking battleground as it was without adding the stiffness of an uncomfortable position.

"She'll be the death of you," Mycroft said quietly.

"My choice," Sherlock replied equally quietly, hoping their voices were deep enough that John couldn't make out the words.

"Just like five years ago?" Mycroft asked.

"Evidently not. I'm still here, aren't I?"

Mycroft gave him a look which suggested that wasn't entirely a good thing, then turned to the window thoughtfully.

Sitting back, Sherlock studied his brother. For the first time in years he tried to ignore what he knew and just look instead.

And then he saw the faint, tired lines surrounding his eyes, the almost rumpled shirt, the slight weight gain that suggested Mycroft hadn't been watching what he was eating, and was eating at odd times again.

Worried. His brother was worried. And, even worse, there was a tiny flicker of fear lurking behind his neat façade.

It was wrong. Mycroft was not meant to be worried, he was meant to be calm and annoying and pedantically prissy. The fact that he wasn't was…deeply uncomfortable.

Disliking what he saw, Sherlock looked toward the door, wanting the comfort of having something familiar and right. John, hidden behind the door, barred from his view.

And, when he thought about it, probably sniggering in amusement at having finally got one over him and Mycroft. The image almost made Sherlock smile.

"John," he called, looking back at Mycroft. "You may wish to come in here for this momentous event."

"Yeah, right," John called on the other side of the door. "Like I'm gonna fall for that."

His loss then.

Opposite him, Mycroft had stiffened, his gaze now utterly fixed on Sherlock, as if he were a bomb that might explode.

"I…" - Sherlock let out a long breath - "will allow you to attempt to help us."

There was a pause and then, behind the door, John sniggered as if he were a teenager.

"You're ruining it," Sherlock called.

"Believe me, nothing could _ruin _that," John replied, still chuckling.

But Mycroft was blinking at him, studying him as hard as Sherlock had studied Mycroft earlier and slowly, ever so slowly, Mycroft nodded.

"You're welcome," he said gently.

Sherlock hissed as he stood up, deeply uncomfortable. "Don't ruin it," he muttered.

A twitch of a smile crossed Mycroft's face and he sighed, then nodded. "How magnanimous of you to allow me to help you fix your mistake," he said in his familiar condescending tone.

Much better.

* * *

_Next chapter coincides with Paved with Loves "Broken Promises" (i.e. it's the 1st and 2nd of June!)_


	16. Chapter 15: June 1st to 2nd

_Author's Note_

_Did it a little bit early, but I figure for some people it might be Monday, so that makes it okay, right?_

_Thanks once again to swissmiss for helping beat this chapter into submission. You should all thank her for making sure it, you know, made sense! :-P_

* * *

**1****st**** June**

Their war council consisted of Sherlock, John, John's bottle of Corona and Mycroft.

Hardly an epic delegation, unless you listened to John, who felt that having both him and Mycroft in an accord necessitated a beer to both celebrate and bolster patience.

"One tug?" Mycroft asked, clarifying. "You believe that to be possible?"

"I believe it to be our only way forward. Moriarty counters every move I make, the only way to ensure that he cannot is to instantly-"

"Use a chess analogy and I will throw this at you," John muttered, taking a swig.

"-pull it all out under him and leave him with no other moves," Sherlock finished, barely glancing at John. "Honestly, you can be so dramatic at times."

"How ironic," John muttered and then sat forward. "You know the problem with this though, right?"

"Moriarty will be expecting you to work against him," Mycroft sighed, and Sherlock saw a flicker of disappointment in John's face. "You will have to create a ruse; a plot within a plot."

"He needs to be fooled by it." Sherlock steepled his fingers together.

"We never took the link between Roberts and Moran further," John said after a moment. "We never had a chance."

"We'd worked that out," Sherlock muttered, then blinked. "Oh, oh yes! John, sometimes-"

"Yes..." John waved at him. "Again, get on with it before we slide out of compliment and into the 'everyone is stupid' speech."

It was strange how the feeling of…that warm feeling could creep up at the oddest times. "You are suggesting we pretend to be two steps behind?"

John nodded. "Could you do it?"

"Yes, will your ego take that blow?" Mycroft asked politely, as if genuinely concerned.

Casting a half arsed attempt at a glare in Mycroft's direction, Sherlock settled back. "Possibly," he said. "There will be pitfalls though; even I cannot constantly juggle a real and fake investigation to that extent and fool Moriarty."

"Bring in others?" John asked, leaning forward. "Lestrade? Ashcroft could look back into the mercenary link, even the assassin and arms deals-"

"The more people involved the less secure we are," Mycroft reminded them.

Sherlock studied his expression, barely restraining the urge to roll his eyes. Mycroft did so love his secrets.

"He won't expect it though," Sherlock said, considering the idea and feeling himself bristle at the idea of delegating. "He knows I hate incompetent idiots getting in the way."

"There's a reason for it," Mycroft said simply.

John threw them both a look. "I'm amazed your egos can fit in the same room at times."

"It's why you rarely see us together," Sherlock said absently. "However, I believe Lestrade will need to be involved as it is."

"Why?" John asked, looking slightly taken aback at the ease at which Sherlock agreed.

"Moriarty managed to get people into his department before. We need to keep him on side and he does get so tetchy when he feels he is being left out." Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the idea. "And, I fear if we are to go through with this plan we need to make it crystal clear we are starting work."

"Oh, God." John shifted. "Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like this?"

"Ah." Mycroft nodded. "Roberts' little black book of contacts."

"We got a copy," John protested. "And it's in the evidence locker-"

"Moriarty doesn't know that," Sherlock pointed out. "I never did anything with what I had gathered from some of her acquaintances. And most of them never knew they were being watched and questioned. Besides..." He levelled a look at John. "This is your plan."

John pulled a face. "You are honestly suggesting we just wander down to Scotland Yard, tell Lestrade our plan and then go thieving from the evidence lockers?"

Sherlock turned to look at Mycroft. "And you say normal people can't follow a conversation."

* * *

Sherlock spent most of the day going through the folders at 221c. It was a strange moment when, at three o'clock, he found he couldn't settle, despite the fact he knew Mrs Hudson was picking Ava up and Mycroft was now watching them like a hawk.

He was home when he should be picking her up. Listening to her babble at the speed of light and marvelling at the odd things she did on their journey home.

He shoved at the thought, trying not to let thoughts of Ava distract him. Compartmentalise, he scolded himself. It's the only way.

* * *

John returned late, having had a 'friendly drink' with Lestrade.

"Well?" Sherlock demanded when John opened the door into the tiny, miserable room.

John collapsed onto the other chair. "He's on board. Swearing like a sailor, I might add, but he's on board."

"He'll be jumpy the first time we ask him to go against the force," Sherlock sighed. "It will be difficult for him."

John scrubbed a hand over tired eyes. "He wants to be loyal," he agreed. "We shouldn't push at him unless necess-"

"No." Sherlock stood. "I believe he will be helping with a robbery tonight."

John stared at him and then winced. "Don't be such a dick," he scolded. "Let him have time to adjust."

"It's like a plaster; best pulled off quickly before it causes histrionics at the worst possible moment." Sherlock closed the folder. "We may as well know now whether we can count on him in future."

"There won't be a future if you get arrested," John hissed.

"You have such little faith in the Inspector," Sherlock replied smoothly and then resisted the urge to roll his eyes when John leapt up. "Oh, for heaven's sake, John, it's taking something from Scotland Yard, it's hardly a feat of grand scheming."

"I'll do it," John said after a moment. "Not exactly the same potential loss there, is it?"

Ice crashed through him at the reminder. "Don't be foolish," he scolded. "Your entire case depends on your good character and sterling record-"

"And on yours," John argued. "We can't afford to have your name dragged any further through the mud."

Sherlock let out an exasperated noise. "I can burn it as soon as I have it. We know what is in there. We've already dealt with what is in there. There won't be any evidence-"

"How are you going to get past the cameras?"

"I have my ways."

John nodded slowly even as something flickered across his face. Some thought or remembrance that Sherlock couldn't quite read.

"Is that what you used to do?" John asked suddenly. Sherlock had been sure that whatever was currently dancing around John's head was something that would be mulled over for at least a few hours.

Do? Sherlock tilted his head in confusion.

Uncertainty warred in John's eyes as if he were debating taking the issue further.

"Spit it out," Sherlock ordered with a frustrated air.

The order seemed to piss John off. "You sound like her," he said, tightening her jaw. "You have your ways, she knows what they like."

Irene Adler? It seemed an odd divergence for John to suddenly be jealous of the woman again. Pulling himself up like an offended hen, Sherlock raised his nose in distaste. "I am sick of having this argument-"

"Oh, believe me, we haven't had this one," John said, crossing his arms in response to Sherlock's reaction. "Just when you're high or looking for information, isn't that what Moriarty said last night?"

Sherlock blinked, suddenly confused by the left turn the conversation had taken. "I fail to see what this has to do with our current argument about who is most suited to stealing evidence."

John threw up his hands. "You do it, gather the evidence," he said, backing off. "In fact, do what you like," he added with a disapproving snarl.

Helplessly lost, Sherlock frowned at John's retreating back. "We have had this conversation before, you stupid man," he said suddenly. "I've only ever had you."

John paused at the doorway and his head tilted as he gathered himself. Bolstered by the reaction, Sherlock stepped forward.

"It was pleasurable and they were stupid enough to believe it gave them some sort of power or tool to use against me. It hardly seemed to be a price to pay; it was a win-win situation." Sherlock risked another step. "I…with you it…" He glared up at the ceiling, wanting to avoid the look that John was probably giving him. "You're the only person I've ever…"

John turned and sighed, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't make me say it," Sherlock muttered.

John looked away.

"I don't understand your issue with it," Sherlock said after a moment. "It was years before I met you. I don't hold those inane, dull women against you-"

"I guess…" John sighed. "I know you love me. I know we work, I just…I can't help but wonder how you viewed our first few times together."

There were many words that he could use. "I…I'm not sure," he confessed, unsure what John wanted. "But…" He actually almost scuffed a shoe against the floor like an errant child. "When you were shot, afterwards…" He hated saying the words. "It was terrifying."

John studied him. "Terrifying?" he prompted gently.

"Yes. " Sherlock stepped even closer to him. "I…We are never having this conversation again," he warned. "But…I…we…I wanted to stay connected like that forever."

John dipped his head, then glanced up, a twinkle in his eye. "That was painful, wasn't it?"

"You have no idea," Sherlock muttered, before forcing himself to focus properly on John and meet his eyes. "It isn't just sex, it was never just sex."

John nodded. "That was all I really needed," he said after a minute. "You could have spared yourself the rest of that speech."

Sherlock glared, even as he laughed and pressed a kiss to John's lips.

* * *

"I can't fucking believe you," Lestrade groused as they stood in the stairwell, the black book in Sherlock's hands. "This is the most stupid thing-"

"Inspector, try to whinge in your head. We are attempting stealth."

"We're attempting career suicide," Lestrade corrected, still sounding like one of those constipated old men that complained at the supermarket. "Why do I let you talk me into this?"

"Me talk you into this?" Sherlock turned in annoyance. "After all the complaints from you about keeping things hidden? I think you'll find, Lestrade, you talked _me_ into this."

"Fuck off," Lestrade muttered, though he looked delightfully concerned at the idea. "How do we get out of here?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We walk. It's hardly as if we aren't expected to be in the building."

"Right…no." Lestrade winced. "We can't just suddenly appear."

"No," Sherlock agreed. "You're going to 'catch me'. Then, when your suspicions are raised you are going to lead a raid on the flat."

Lestrade gaped at him then muttered something under his breath. "Did you even need me in the locker room?"

"It did make things moderately smoother, though louder." Sherlock considered it. "You didn't hinder the process," he offered generously.

"How the hell John puts up with you I will never know," Lestrade said, sounding pained.

Sherlock smirked. "Inspector, I suggest you start feeling very annoyed with me," he said, as he pushed open the stairwell door. "It's showtime."

Lestrade smiled wolfishly. "No acting required then," he said under his breath before launching into a rather impressive rant mid-stream as they walked through the door and into the startled looking officers sneaking out for a quick smoke.

He did have the oddest set of useful talents.

* * *

It was well past midnight when they sat on the floor together, watching the book burn. Sherlock had his head in John's lap, while John leaned back against the chair, his head on the seat and fingers tangled in Sherlock's hair.

"Lestrade really does have terrible vocabulary," Sherlock mumbled, feeling oddly content, and slightly impressed by how easily they had slid back into their positions after John had checked on a sleeping Ava.

"Depends on what kind of vocabulary you like," John said after a moment. "I know a few in the army that would have appreciated that language."

Sherlock snorted. "You are easily pleased, John."

There was a long release of breath above him. "Yep. You, Ava, a few cases, no Moriarty and every male who comes within a mile of my daughter once she's legal to drop dead…that would do me," John said with a grin.

"One thing at a time," Sherlock said, yawning. "I cannot work two miracles at once."

John chuckled lightly, his hands still combing through Sherlock's hair, even as he yawned as well.

"Did you sleep at all today?" Sherlock asked.

"No." John shifted under him. "Every time I closed my eyes all I could see was…" His fingers tightened momentarily. "No."

"We should sleep," Sherlock said after a moment as he watched the flames lick up the book. "After the book's destroyed completely."

"Mm," John said, bending over to kiss at Sherlock's hairline. "We have some time then."

Turning his head from the fire, Sherlock looked up at John, his face oddly sculptured by the light of the fire. Curling a hand around the back of his head, Sherlock pulled him down for a proper kiss.

It was slow and luxurious. Decadent in many ways to strip John off in front of the fire and smooth his hands over the golden body before him, mouthing at the breaks in skin and tan.

"I love you," John whispered as he rocked inside of Sherlock. "You're right, it's fucking terrifying."

Sherlock arched, enjoying the feeling of being completely surrounded, completely together with John. "I am always right," he said, closing his eyes and then immediately opening them, needing to keep his eyes on John.

John, who looked suddenly as if he were trying not to grin.

"What?" Sherlock blinked at him, annoyed at the broken mood.

"It's just very romantic." John nipped at his throat. "Firelight, the rug, the beautiful naked man."

"The sodomy." Sherlock rolled his eyes and hooked his legs around John's waist. "The dilly-dallying."

John just grinned. "Are we not at that stage yet?" he teased.

Sherlock craned his neck up and nipped John's bottom lip. "Idiot," he said fondly. "We are far past that artificial bollocks."

John laughed and then did something wicked with his hips that had them both moaning. The mood changed abruptly once again, and John grabbed at Sherlock's hands, twining their fingers together and leaning down, as if to blend them both together with the fluid light and shadows cast by the fire.

"You and me," he whispered. "Just you and me."

Sherlock nodded and breathed the wonderful man in as deep as he could. "You and me," he agreed. "It's all we need."

* * *

**2nd June**

What they distinctly did not need was Scotland Yard turning up at twenty past three in the afternoon to conduct their raid.

"Timing," Sherlock hissed at Lestrade.

"Do I look like I book warrants?" Lestrade snapped. "I'm not a fucking doctor's surgery."

"Bad comparison," John muttered as he stared at the officers and folded his arms, a hostile expression on his face.

"Do this quickly," Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade stopped, turned and shot Sherlock a disbelieving look. "Are you going to come up with a believable reason why you were in the building last night?" he said loudly. "Maybe next time you steal evidence you could remember that I have to follow it up with the proper procedure and in the proper time, not to your damned schedule."

Point taken. Sherlock bristled outwardly, and inwardly curled his lip at the dressing down. Stomping over to the window he stared out, trying to work out what to do next, how to blend actual steps in dismantling Moriarty with the fake ones so as to not arouse his suspicions.

There were some contacts he hadn't asked, some that he needed more from. He could address those holes and still appear to be a few steps behind. Barrymore especially needed to be questioned properly and Sherlock could appear to be in a one-track state of mind, allowing Moriarty to believe that he had missed-

Down in the street Ava flew up the pavement, her coat on due to the poor June weather they were having. Behind her, Mrs Hudson took quick steps to keep up, the expression on her face indicating that this dynamic had been active their entire walk home. He turned away quickly, reluctant to track her movements in case he was being watched. Instead he stalked to his chair and sat on it, eying the detectives.

As much as John and he had pretended that he could physically distance himself from Ava, they both knew it had to be more. They had to give Moriarty some indication that Sherlock's link to Ava was solely through John. It might not be enough to fool him, but it should be enough to make him hesitate at using her until he was sure.

He couldn't be openly hostile (thankfully) or it would seem too obvious. The idea of being callous or dismissive towards her almost physically hurt.

But he could limit his apparent interest. Show less enthusiasm, be less demonstrative.

Especially when there was every chance that someone in his flat might be walking out the door and straight to Moriarty's waiting ear.

Unaffected. He had to appear bored or forgetful of her presence.

It didn't help that he was hyper aware of her now. "I have places to be," Sherlock said, drumming his hands on the rests. "Do you really require my presence?"

"Ava will be home soon," John said, sounding peeved. "Can you not come back another day?"

"If you didn't steal things from me, I wouldn't have to," Lestrade said in a matter-of-fact voice.

The door moved slightly as if a small person were pushing against it to listen.

Ava.

Sherlock stood, marching over to Anderson, who was entirely far too close to the skull and his stash of cigarettes. Oddly, John never thought to look in his own hiding places. It was the first time he had ever been almost thankful of Anderson's presence. There was no way he could allow Ava the chance to crawl in his lap in front of the officers.

"You are aware of what you are looking for?" Sherlock snapped. "A thick book, too thick to squeeze in here."

"You seem to know a lot about it," Anderson challenged.

"I found it and gave it to you," Sherlock said, speaking slowly in case Anderson had trouble understanding the sentence. "Of course I know what it looks like."

Anderson just sneered at him, but all the same turned his attention elsewhere. Away from his cigarettes and, more importantly, the potential danger of both John and Ava seeing them.

Mission accomplished, Sherlock wandered back to the window, not entirely sure when he had become interested in the daily goings on of a year one class.

"I really don't get what you're trying to prove here," John said with the righteous anger the situation deserved. "Why would we bother? It's not as if we wouldn't expect you to pull something like this again. Any excuse and you're here at the drop of a hat to check the plumbing."

Ava, he could see in the reflection, was now standing by John, silently staring at them all with wide, unsure eyes. A letter was clutched to her chest, becoming crumpled and creased as she worried at it.

To Sherlock's frustration, John didn't seem to notice it. The man was useless at multi-tasking while lying; it was probably the greatest tell he had. His heart sank when Ava seemed to write off John's attention as a lost cause and tried for him instead.

The bumbling idiot got in her way a few times and he could see her expression falling.

"For God's sakes, Anderson, is it utterly beyond you to stay still and let her through?" Sherlock heard himself say. Glaring at his own reflection, he forced himself to stay still when Ava finally darted through and pulled on his shirt gently.

"Not now," he murmured, staring out the window at the flats opposite and avoiding the reflections in the glass suddenly.

He forced himself to keep his expression blank when Ava tried to peer out the window next to him, straining to see what he might be seeing and then giving up when it became suddenly obvious to the tiny five-year-old that she had no hope in seeing from his vantage point. Instead, she turned, leaning her head against his hip with such ease that he almost cursed her for it.

If ever there was evidence that he needed to keep this disinterest up constantly, this was it. Ava didn't even seem to suspect there was anything wrong. There was no hurt or worry coming from her, just idle curiosity and an increasing level of frustration.

There was a loud crash that startled him momentarily out of his thoughts. Turning, he glared at one of the detectives, who had emptied a drawer onto the floor as if he were the star in some foolish spy film and was required to ignore search protocols and simply make a dramatic mess.

"Oy," Lestrade snapped, "we're looking, not tearing the place apart."

"But sir-" Anderson started with his usual irritating whine.

"The kid."

Sherlock blinked in surprise as Donovan nodded pointedly towards Ava, her actions overly neat and careful.

That was unexpected.

"He's broken the law," Anderson complained. "Just because a child is somehow allowed to live in the same place as that-"

"Do not finish that sentence."

It was somewhat gratifying to hear the venom in John's voice. Even more wonderful was the startled look Anderson gave John, as if he'd never expected that tone to come out of the ex-army surgeon. It was wonderful how surprising John could be at times. The military straight back and the clasped hands might look as if John were remaining polite and cordial but the expression said otherwise. He was being restrained and what was better was that Anderson was realising it and starting to look uneasy.

Ava stepped in closer to him and he ran a soothing hand over her hair, trying to keep his expression neutral. Part of him desperately wanted to say something, to reassure her that this was all just bumbling idiocy and unimportant compared to her day, but he clamped down the urge.

"Anderson, wait outside," Lestrade said, ducking his head and sounding sad. "The rest of you finish this off."

Sherlock smirked as Anderson made his way out with one last, filthy glare in Sherlock's direction, then accidently caught John's eye as his partner glanced between him and Ava and a sad expression crossed his face.

Sherlock turned from it quickly, trying to get the point across to John.

_Don't ruin it now._

Thankfully, Ava seemed to give up with Sherlock and returned to John.

"In a minute, Ava," John said, sounding distracted and tight with emotion as he spoke.

"But Daddy-" Ava said, sounding suddenly confused.

"Ava, go upstairs." John's voice was closer now as he made his way towards Sherlock, weaving in between the officers that were replacing the items with mixed looks of confusion and frustration.

Then there was the sound of a tiny foot stomping on the floorboard. It took a moment to sink in, even when coupled with the utterly petulant 'no' that Ava huffed out. Ava had actually stomped her foot down. He didn't know whether to laugh or yell.

From the look on John's face, neither did he. Instead John turned to stare at their daughter as if he'd never seen her before, his face flushing, assumingly from the judgemental looks being levelled at them by half the officers.

"Did you just stamp your foot?" John asked in sheer disbelief. A quick glance at Sherlock seemed to indicate John had never had to deal with this before.

There was a wobble in Ava's expression, as if she knew she had crossed a line, but then the lips firmed at the tiny hands clenched. "I won the spelling prize!" Ava sulked, jutting a sulky lip out. "And it's in the letter you won't read. And I'm in the potato-and-spoon race at Sports Day. And you won't say hello to me," she added, as if that were a crime punishable by death as she folded her arms, scrunching the paper in her hands even more.

This had been a bad day to try this.

She'd won the spelling prize? Ava, who hated spelling with a vengeance and had to practically be dragged to the table before she would do anything. Who had looked doubtful when he had tried to explain the importance of correct spelling but had seemed to make an effort after his lecture.

She'd won it?

Pride blasted through him, oddly fierce despite the fact it was such a small competition. His daughter had improved so much she's won a prize.

Next to him, John suddenly snorted in laughter. Baffled, Sherlock stared at him.

"Hello, Ava," he said, his voice suddenly bouncy and bright. "Do you have any news to tell us?"

And, stranger still, Ava beamed. "Hello, Daddy," she said sweetly. "I'm in the potato-and-spoon race," she said, sounding extraordinarily pleased with herself.

"Really?" John looked as if he were trying not to grin as they went through this rather odd tradition. "Any other news?" he asked politely.

Sherlock glanced between them, feeling oddly left out. Across from him, Detective Calder rolled her eyes at the display and seemed to dismiss John and Ava's off conversation.

"And I won the spelling prize, which means I get to be in the letter home," Ava added, proudly.

John nodded indulgently. "That's amazing. I'll read it later. But right now the police are turning the house upside down because they're stuck for clues and grasping at straws." For some reason it sounded somewhat sinister to have that cheery voice relaying the facts. Lestrade even looked mildly uncomfortable at John's words, then turned his nose up at Sherlock's expression, as if remembering why he was there in the first place.

Not to Ava, though, it seemed. She just shook her head, as if sad at the idea. "That's silly," Ava declared.

"Yes," John agreed and then grinned at her. "Was that better?" he asked with a wink.

"Much." Ava sniffed in a rather haughty manner that was oddly familiar. "You could have done that the first time," she scolded.

"Yes," John agreed, "but remember that sometimes I get a bit...stressed and don't do things right the first time."

That was what they were doing? That sounded unlike John…

"Like Auntie Harry," Ava asked.

Ah. That would explain it. Of course Harry would need a few attempts to get within the realm of correct.

But John seemed delighted by her memory and Sherlock could assume it was perhaps one of the things Harry had done marginally correctly with Ava. "Exactly like Auntie Harry," John agreed as he held out his hand for the letter.

Ava practically bounced as she handed it to him, looking reminiscent of an eager puppy about to be fed. Sherlock watched, trying not to be touched by her enthusiasm and trying not to show his curiosity over the letter, especially while the officers were putting the finishing touches to their attempts at tidying.

What he hadn't been expecting was for John to go white and to clutch at the letter so hard, Sherlock thought it would rip if he tightened his hand any further.

Without thought, he moved towards John, sparing a scathing glare at the detective who got in his way.

John lifted his gaze and with a shuddered breath handed the letter over to Sherlock.

Sports Day? What was so terrible about-

As if the school were out to get him (and he wouldn't put it past that headmistress) he stared at the date in disbelief.

June 15th.

Six years since he had jumped off St Bart's.

To the day.

And the first year Moriarty had been aware that the events of the day had been a failure.

It shouldn't have surprised him. Whether or not Ava had an event that day, the date was still coming. But seeing it, in black and white…there was something about it.

"John?" he asked carefully.

"Everything all right?" asked Lestrade from behind him.

Interfering man.

John nodded, his mind clearly not really on the question as he tried to shake himself out of whatever morbid thoughts he had become lost in. Despite Sherlock trying to catch his eye, John ignored him, instead turning pointedly to the remaining detectives.

Taking the hint for once, Lestrade nodded at the detectives to continue packing away, then stepped close to Sherlock.

"Problem?" Lestrade asked quietly.

Ava pressed against his leg, looking nervous and so lost that it was impossible not to scoop her up and let her rest her head on his shoulder.

"Nothing that concerns you," Sherlock said dismissively as Ava tightened her grip on his shirt.

"We talked about this-" Lestrade began.

Suddenly Sherlock wanted nothing more than to be left alone with Ava and John. To hold them both and hide them away.

He needed all these intruders out of his flat and away from his family.

"I'll rephrase then: unless you plan on becoming a relationship counsellor there is nothing that concerns you," Sherlock snapped. "Though God knows you couldn't be any worse at that then you are at detective work," he added mockingly.

That earned him a reproachful look from the five-year-old, who drew back from his shoulder like a scolding schoolmarm.

"The date," he conceded, passing over the letter to Lestrade.

"What about…oh." Lestrade looked up in a panic and then seemed deeply uncomfortable with what he saw in Sherlock's eyes. "Right," he said before he started to bark orders at the detectives.

"What about the date?" Ava asked curiously.

He couldn't even begin to explain it.

* * *

_Next up June 13th to 14th - Sherlock and John start to feel the strain of what they are trying to do..._


	17. Chapter 16: June 13th to 14th

**Just got back in from the Winter Wonderland at Hyde Park - pretty sure half the rides were meant to be halloween fun houses just with santa hats! Still, figured as I only have a few minutes until Monday I may as well post!**

* * *

**13****th**** June**

The flat was silent; shadows cast from the window yawned into the room as Sherlock walked in quietly at half past four in the morning.

The fatigue was building. He could feel it blurring the edges of his mind and warning him that without anything to focus on he would soon fall asleep.

Bloody planes; they were so unendingly dull that it would make anyone feel tired. He despised being locked into a tiny container with the world's most boring people snoring at him.

Still, Riga had been useful; both to fool Moriarty and to get some work done. It was the third trip in almost two weeks now where he had barely stayed in the country for more than five hours.

The room he shared with John was silent, punctuated with John's almost snoring breath.

Home.

Undressing as he walked, Sherlock made his way to the bed, to his side of the bed that John had left free as if waiting for him to return-

The thought made him pause at the domesticity behind it. The worrying amount of normality.

Strangely it didn't seem as terrible as it would have a year ago.

Crawling into the bed, Sherlock pressed his body against John's, soaking up the warmth and the smell of him as best he could. In his arms, John stirred, paused, then snuggled back.

"Got ten minutes before my partner gets back," John said without opening his eyes.

"That's horrifically unoriginal," Sherlock complained, pressing his lips to John's shoulder to absorb the movement of John's chuckle.

"It's late," John mumbled, shifting. "I'll do better in the morning."

"It's thirty-seven minutes past four," Sherlock said after a pause.

"Go to fucking sleep then," John replied, capturing his hand and seemingly holding it hostage.

"Not tired," Sherlock said, kissing the scarred skin.

The head of hair tickling his nose shook his head. "Believe me, God himself couldn't get anything from me now," came the rather tetchy response. "I'm not that young anymore to be waking up at some God-forsaken hour for a shag."

"I've set up Elijah Vergossi."

There was a silence, and then John turned to look at him. "Yeah?"

Sherlock nodded proudly. "It's all in place, one tug and Moriarty's legitimate business and bank accounts will be collapsed."

"All three of them," John said, doubtfully.

"With Viola Renwald's finance plan set up to fail, he will have barely any funds left. Money talks."

John studied him and then reached out a hand to stroke back Sherlock's curls. "Ashcroft reckons he's found a way in with the mercenary link. We might be able to get to Moran's successor."

"Mycroft mentioned it." Sherlock nipped at John's hand.

"You checked in with him?"

"I woke him up." Sherlock smiled at the image of Mycroft, hair askew in a way he hadn't seen in years, glaring at him. "He still has the most old-fashioned taste in pyjamas. I'd swear he believes himself to be an eighty-year-old invalid." He watched the smile flash over John's face. "He also mentioned something about your court case."

"We'll talk about it later-"

"No." Sherlock pressed in closer to him. "Now. Tell me."

"The manager," John sighed. "Sneaky bastard. He hated me and seems to have cottoned on halfway through his witness statement that he could make waves for me." John shook his head. "Apparently, according to Lestrade, they'll soon verify if he's lying. They're looking into it."

It was beyond frustrating. He could feel his entire body tense and coil with the need to do…something. Anything. To track down that manager and force a retraction, to tease out the truth and pull John from the situation.

"Shush," John soothed, pulling him close. "Come to sleep."

"That's shocking grammar," Sherlock complained as he let John arrange them.

"You woke me up," John replied, pressing a kiss to his head. "You have no say now."

* * *

He overslept.

Barely three hours later and he needed to be out the door, tracking down Miriam Foster, an assassin who was in London to dispose of some activist causing issues. If he could work out how she received her missions he might be finally able to trace it back.

Unfortunately, despite the fact that he was about to track down and follow a paid killer, Ava Watson appeared to be far more difficult to deal with. If for no other reason than that he couldn't quite deal with her while he prepared to potentially watch an assassination.

When he emerged from the bedroom, Ava immediately brightened. He forced himself not to look at her to see what she had been up to for the past week.

"Good morning," she sing-songed at him cheerfully, waving with her spoon.

"Yes," he said, dismissively. "John, have you seen-"

"Phone's on the mantle," John said, watching Ava carefully. Their eyes met briefly as Sherlock hesitated, not sure if he should make some effort.

John tilted his head in the direction of the mantelpiece, his gaze steady. Understanding, Sherlock picked up the phone that Mycroft had left so he could easily communicate with those Mycroft had following Eric Pearsons.

Perching on the edge of the chair and scrolling through the information, Sherlock started to plan the day, trying to see it from Foster's perspective, using what he knew of her to calculate-

"I'm in the red team."

Sherlock stared uncomprehendingly at the information on his phone, suddenly derailed, and turned to look at Ava. John had vanished, possibly into their room as the angle of the door had changed from where he had left it on his way out into the kitchen. Alone, and without John to distract her, she seemed to take it as an invitation to continue.

"Because I'm in the red house so I have to wear a red t-shirt."

He had no idea what she was talking about. He stared at her, trying to work out if the inane nature of her statement was a one-off or if constant proximity to her had dulled his senses when seeing her every day.

She stared at him, clearly waiting for some sort of a response.

"Wonderful," he said, glancing back down at the phone. Usually Pearsons started his day at a café, meeting with others to discuss their progress in annoying people the night before-

"'Cause red's the best," Ava said, sounding peeved about something as John walked back in. "We won last year as well."

There was no way he was going to be able to work this out while she was still in the flat. And there were still fifteen minutes before she would leave. "You deal with this," he complained to John, who was darting his gaze between them in a startled manner. "I need to go," Sherlock added, as he walked over to his coat.

He needed silence. He needed calm, not chattering.

"You are coming, aren't you?" Ava asked in a small voice.

What? Sherlock blinked down at her, momentarily lost by what she was talking about. "Yes," he said, buttoning up his coat, ridiculous really as he was just going down to the basement, but at least he could leave quickly once he had a plan.

Then suddenly, everything snapped into focus and he hesitated over his last button, realising suddenly what she had been talking about.

Sports Day.

For a moment he warred within himself, wanting to turn to her and explain while at the same time knowing that to do that, to stop and indulge her would completely derail him for the day.

But her face had lit up at his confirmation and he felt a slight wobble that he might have done something…not good.

"As long as you stop mentioning it every breakfast," he added imperiously, hoping that she might understand that…

He had no idea what it was that he wanted her to understand. That sometimes things didn't happen?

They'd talked about it; he and John. As much as it terrified the pair of them, the day was coming whether Ava was at a sports day or not. In many ways it was probably the safest place for her to be, surrounded by familiar faces, by parents and teachers that knew her.

"But it's Sports Day," Ava said in a tone that made him want to bang his head against a brick wall and explain that it wasn't the be all and end all. "Daddy, did you explain Sports Day to him?" she asked, turning in her seat to aim her spoon accusingly at John.

John, who did not look at all pleased.

"Yes," John said, sounding distracted. "Sherlock-

He'd slipped up. He knew it, John knew it.

But he couldn't deal with it now.

"Later," he snapped, yanking open the door and almost throwing himself down the stairs to get away from the enthusiastic little girl and her disapproving father.

* * *

Pearsons' skull shattered as the bullet ripped through it on his way home. The stupid man had thought taking a short cut while drunk was a good idea apparently.

Sherlock hadn't even caught a glimpse of the man alive, much less seen his assassin.

It was annoying.

* * *

"That cannot happen again," Sherlock snarled as he stormed into the flat.

John had his head in his hands, reading something. Slowly he tilted his head up to meet Sherlock's gaze and his mouth firmed in annoyance. "My thoughts exactly," John snapped back. "What the hell were you thinking? Making that promise-"

"I told you. I cannot deal with her when I am trying to destroy a criminal genius. I lost focus and didn't even see the assassination-"

"Stay in your goddamned room then," John hissed. "She's five years old, Sherlock, she doesn't understand when you need peace. Jesus, you could have grabbed the phone and left, you didn't have to stay."

"It's my flat too," Sherlock said petulantly. "I will not be kicked out because-"

"I apologise," John said, shoving the chair backwards as he stood. "Next time I'll toss her out and tell her to wait for you to be in a better mood."

"She was asking stupid questions."

"And who encouraged her to do that? Who indulged her thoughts and interests?" John took a threatening step forward as he cleared the table. "If you can't deal with her then don't come home because I swear, Sherlock, I will not have you confuse her with rules that depend solely on your fucking mood."

A stab of hurt threatened, but Sherlock shoved it aside. "I am doing this for you," he snarled at John.

"All I'm saying is that you shouldn't have said yes," John said, back-pedalling slightly. "I know why you can't go, but getting her hopes up-"

"I wasn't paying attention." Sherlock folded his arms, not entirely sure he liked the odd sliding sensation.

"So you just said yes?" John asked, sounding suddenly more peeved.

"I was busy! She's lucky I managed to engage in conversation at all-"

"What do you want? A medal for it?" John levelled his chin. "I can deal with that, Sherlock, I can explain you're busy. Hell, I thought we agreed that it should look as if you don't care. I can deal with saying you're distracted or thinking or just being you. What I can't deal with now is that Ava thinks you're coming and you won't be there-"

"It's one day!" Sherlock felt any remainder of his patience start to fray. "What does it matter?"

"It matters to her. We have to be shit enough as it is with her without adding this to it-"

"That is your job." Sherlock jabbed a finger at John, furious. "You said you would look after her in this. If she is upset, it is your fault."

John reared back. "I was under the impression we were in this together-" he started to say, hurt.

"Ah yes, the kind of together where I take all the risk and you sit at home baking and failing to raise our child, while blaming me for it."

John's eyes went utterly cold. "Get out," he spat.

Sherlock turned on his heel. "Gladly."

* * *

Miriam Foster annoyed him as he followed her at a discreet distance. Mainly because, despite the fact that she was a woman and a killer for hire, she reminded him of John. The ordinary looks, the surprising capabilities.

The incredible shot.

Everything reminded him of John when they were fighting. It was as if it was the ex-military doctor's way of paying him back for being a git.

Not that he had been this time. He needed to stay separate, away from them, he needed John to pick up the pieces rather than lecturing. This was hardly the right time to be attempting moralistic self-improvement.

He pushed the thoughts away and concentrated instead on following Foster. She seemed to have some personal link with Raymond Setter: the only assassin the old sniper would meet from his circle of killers for hire.

There was some way he could use that, he was sure. He just needed to watch and wait and observe.

The problem was, it was so dull watching her flit around London intent on spending part of her paycheque that his mind couldn't help but drift back to what was happening at home.

* * *

**14****th**** June**

The third cigarette of the day was being greatly enjoyed when Lestrade found him. He deserved it after tracking Foster for over twenty-four hours.

At least she had a new target and, interestingly, a date with a young man whose looks and mannerisms suggested he might be Raymond Setter's son.

How fascinating; a family of assassins.

They were currently sharing a meal at a table outside a pub. He he imagined presenting such an open target was their way of flirting with watched them from one of the tables on an upper balcony overlooking the courtyard.

Not so different, he thought. Perhaps there was another way around the problem of Setter's assassin ring. A more amicable solution.

He saw the figure enter the open courtyard through the gates and then head for the door of the old pub. Rolling his eyes in frustration, Sherlock leaned back and waited for the Detective Inspector to make his way up.

"I assume Mycroft was busy," Sherlock said, as Lestrade approached a minute later, stepping out from the bar into the warm summer night air. "You are aware you don't have to carry his messages across London like a good little pigeon. He is capable of texting."

Lestrade didn't reply. Instead, he placed his beer on the table and slid into the seat. "Them?" he asked, without looking at the pair.

"Yes." If nothing else, Lestrade's presence made Sherlock less conspicuous. "Why are you here?"

"You need to give John some slack."

Sherlock almost rolled his eyes. "Poor John, having to put up with me," he mocked. "You are starting to sound like a broken record, Inspector."

"Bloody crap time to be either one of you," Lestrade acknowledged (finally). "But let's face it: you've got the more dangerous job, John's got the more stressful."

Sherlock darted a glance at Lestrade. "I thought you knew my previous comments to your ability as a relationship counsellor were in jest," he said, with a slightly worried look. "We do not need to discuss this."

"Okay." Lestrade nodded. "Then the kid. Ava."

Sherlock slid his eyes back to the street. "Not here."

"I get what you're doing," Lestrade said, sounding rather worryingly sincere, as if their meeting was about to become one of _those_ talks. "Believe me, I get it. I did the rounds in uniform. Worked in the sex crimes squad for a bit when my eldest was four. Fucking hell, you never want to have them touched by what you have to see every day, by what you have to do and talk about. You wanna wrap up in a bubble and keep 'em far away from anything that's wrong with the world." Lestrade eyed Sherlock carefully. "And there are days when you feel as if you've become so steeped in the shit you deal with, you think you can't possibly go near them ever again."

Reluctantly, Sherlock looked back up at Lestrade. "I killed a man four days ago. I stood and watched him drown and did nothing to stop it."

"Where?" Lestrade asked, seemingly unfazed by the direction conversation was taking.

"Minsk."

"Not my jurisdiction." Lestrade shrugged, the easy quality of his voice almost making Sherlock smile. He seemed to stare at Sherlock, as if he could actually observe something. "You want my advice?"

"I assume my answer won't change the fact you intend to give it?" Sherlock muttered.

Lestrade shifted, smiling. "Kids…at that age, their friends, their activities, Sports Day; it all seems like life and death to them."

"It isn't," Sherlock said firmly. "This is."

"Yeah." Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "And how quickly do you want her to work that out?"

Never. He didn't even need to think about it. If he had his way, Ava would never learn that such situations existed.

"Then play along," Lestrade said, seemingly approving whatever he saw in Sherlock's face. "Let her have that illusion. Let her think that the most important thing in the world is Sports Day and whether or not she can show off to you."

Sherlock glanced down at the couple and slowly nodded.

Together they observed the exchange, Lestrade making notes as if he and Sherlock were talking about something. No one even gave them a second look as they observed an assassin dine with her boss.

"Out of curiosity," Sherlock said as the pair below started to settle the bill. "What message of Mycroft's were you meant to pass on?"

Lestrade took a long sip of his beer. "He said to tell you, 'You can hardly blame the girl for picking up your atrocious tendency to seek out attention everywhere you go'."

Sherlock let out a long sigh.

"Actually..." Lestrade shifted. "He referred to her as your daughter."

Two words. Those two bloody words.

"You could have saved us time and opened with that." Sherlock stood.

"Mm." Lestrade watched him with an irritating amount of ease. "Not entirely sure Mycroft would have agreed with me about the Sports Day thing, though. Can't imagine him understanding its importance either."

That seemed unlikely. Sherlock considered Lestrade for a moment, wondering suddenly about his life, what he did when he left the station. The thought had never occurred before, mainly because, until now, he hadn't found it useful.

"Your boys," he said slowly, unsure of how to navigate this attempt to enquire about Lestrade's personal life instead of his usual method of flaying it open just to see what Lestrade would do. "They live with their mother?"

"Yeah." Lestrade nodded. "And with me when we aren't in the midst of a separation. Why?"

"And they…" Sherlock resisted the urge to squirm, knowing the sight of it would probably make Lestrade's night. "Do you manage to keep them separated: your work and your children?"

"Fuck no." Lestrade downed the rest of his drink. "But then…" He tilted his head as if considering something. "We had some kids down from Sussex who gave this kid money to buy some trainers. This cocky little git of a teenager who just tried his luck. My boys might have had the shit scared out of them at times, but they ain't going around giving away their money like a pair of wallies."

Sherlock frowned. "I assume there was an attempt to indicate it's not such a bad thing to not keep them separate."

Lestrade nodded and stood with a laugh. "Kids grow up, mate. Sometime you gotta teach 'em to be afraid of the dark 'cause one day you won't be there to help them."

"That is not reassuring," Sherlock said after giving that some consideration.

"I know." Lestrade nodded again. "I tried telling the little sods not to grow up, but they just don't listen."

How ridiculous; it was a completely stupid request to make, however worryingly understandable it was.

* * *

When Sherlock returned home an hour later, the flat was dark and oddly silent. Making his way carefully up the stairs, he paused when he caught the faintest whiff of a Corona.

When he stepped in to the flat, John was sitting, almost in the dark, with the beer and facing the window.

"John-"

"I'm not in the mood," John said in a clipped tone. "Go to bed if that's what you're here for or sod off downstairs."

No.

Sherlock stopped behind John's chair and bent over it, pressing his nose into John's throat and breathing him in before he raised his lips to John's ear.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

He could feel it; feel how John was trying to keep hold of his anger. It oddly made him smile as John's stubborn nature battled for a moment before he turned his face slightly towards Sherlock.

"You're getting better at that," John breathed gently.

"I fear there was a large margin for improvement."

John chuckled weakly and then relaxed against him.

They stayed like that, just resting their heads against each other until, to Sherlock's slight horror, his back started to ache from being bent over the chair in that position.

There was a slight possibility that Ava had a point and he was starting to get old.

Pulling back and popping his back, Sherlock stepped around the chair and sat facing John, who was now watching him with a hint of the previous annoyance.

"We need to talk though," John said, putting the bottle on the side table. "Ava-"

"I don't have to wear red, do I?" Sherlock asked with some disgust. "I can assure you, it is not my colour."

"You're going?" The sheer doubt in John's voice was rather offensive.

"Do you think I would lie to you about this?"

"No," John said slowly. "But…I can't really picture you at a sports day."

"It's important to her," Sherlock said, his arms stretching out and resting along the chair's arm.

"I thought you couldn't mix home and work," John asked with far too much calm in his voice.

"I can't mix thinking and Ava," Sherlock corrected.

"If you're going to snap at her again-"

"But I believe I should start trying to," Sherlock continued, ignoring John as if he weren't speaking. "I cannot plan for tomorrow, John. I have no idea what he will do, if anything at all. We are not ready to take a stance against him. And as I cannot plot or plan, it seems as if I may as well spend the day with you."

"At Sports Day?" John asked.

"You said it was the safest place," Sherlock replied, then took a deep breath as he studied John. "And I believe someone once told me the perils of believing that being alone protects anyone."

John flinched and closed his eyes. "You think he will?" he asked, his voice wavering ever so slightly. "Come tomorrow, I mean?" he clarified, opening his eyes and looking as if he were bracing himself for the worst possible news.

"I…" Sherlock shook his head. "I cannot tell. I believe it will depend upon his mood."

John let out a bitter sound that was half laugh, half sob. "If he does-"

"It will be the only reason I don't turn up," Sherlock assured him.

John winced and bent over, elbows on his knees as he buried his hands in his hair. "I want this over," he said suddenly, his voice muffled from his position. "I want this fucking done with."

The position, so like the one he had walked in on yesterday, made Sherlock frown. "The case, is it-"

John shook his head, keeping his face bowed and hidden. "I feel like I'm pacing the flat constantly, just waiting," he hissed. "I can't stand it."

"John…" Sherlock stared, hating the sight of him suffering. He was all too familiar with the crawling need to do something, anything to relieve the pain of just waiting for something to happen. "You cannot get caught doing anything that will harm your-"

John raised his head abruptly, his short hair standing up on end from where he had been grabbing it. "I am going mad," he said. "I half want someone to try getting in here again, just so I can take action."

The thought made Sherlock rise out of his chair and go to John, kneeling at his feet and framing his face with his hands. "Don't," he whispered fiercely. "I need you here, I need you free."

"And I need you to stay alive and not come back looking exhausted because I can't be with you," John hissed. "I feel…I feel like I'm failing you by not being there."

"Ava-"

"I know." John breathed out a frustrated breath. "I know all of that. Doesn't mean I don't want to keep you safe too. Or…at least cover you when you do something stupid."

Sherlock drew back a little. Strangely it had never occurred to him; he'd become so used to working on his own over the past few years that even during the brief period of time that John had joined him on cases they hadn't been his main focus.

But he missed it. Even after all these years he could still remember the rush of delighted adrenaline at running and knowing he had John behind him, no matter what. The calm hands that could stitch him up or fire a gun with deadly precision coupled with the dry wit that could make a deathly situation a joy or could confuse their opponents and leave Sherlock trying not to grin in amusement.

How long would it be before they would have that again? Before Ava was old enough to be left on her own or with a babysitter without the fear that she might be taken from them? He hated this tug between Ava and John, as if he couldn't decide which was more important at any given time.

Why people procreated multiple times was beyond him; surely it just made the choice harder.

The fact was he didn't know how to reply to John. They both had agreed Ava came first, but it didn't mean it was any easier to accept.

Whatever John read in his eyes made him smile a little and nod. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what John was nodding to but words were useless at the moment.

"You jumped in the morning," John said, breaking their silence with a hoarse voice and an almost questioning tone. "Will he-"

"I don't know," Sherlock reiterated, pulling back a little, hating to admit that he had no clue how that would affect Moriarty's plans for tomorrow. "I will see Mycroft in the morning and meet you at the school-"

"The high school," John said, sounding as if he were on automatic before he frowned. "Are you sure that's wise going to Mycroft?"

"Yes. Mycroft has resources should something happen. And he is far better at reading reports; it's practically all he does all day."

"So you're going because Mycroft might help you should something happen?" John asked.

Sherlock pulled a face. "Your summation is hideously inaccurate. I'm simply going to-" He broke off. "High school? Why are we going there? She's five."

"The field, it's bigger." John shrugged. "Besides, it's probably where she'll be going when she's older, so the more familiar it is-"

"She's five." Sherlock drew back and stood up. "You don't need to consider those sorts of things yet."

John watched him. "She'll be six in a few weeks," he said carefully.

Six? That was unpleasant. "And what do you do with six-year-olds?" Sherlock asked carefully.

"Don't know." John shrugged. "I've sort of just been making it up as I go. Still..." He stood, stretching out the aches of sitting in a chair too long. "If we fuck up the sixth year we can always blame each other now."

"Or Mycroft," Sherlock added pointedly as John walked into the kitchen and turned on the light, making them both wince. "What about…birthdays?"

"Parties." John grinned. "Just kind of shove a bunch of kids in a hall and put on some music. Then act concerned when one shows you a finger they claim has been wounded terribly."

That sounded…utterly horrific. "And presents?"

"Sherlock," John said gently, turning to him after putting his bottle in the recycling. "Let's agree that you have no interest in buying her clothes, toys or chocolate."

"I've bought her chocolate before."

"Right." John nodded. "The Curly-Wurly bar trick to keep her quiet."

"She enjoyed them," Sherlock muttered. "I fail to see why you didn't get on board with the idea."

"Anyway." John held up a hand. "I'll take care of the traditional stuff. Our money, they can be from both of us."

"But-"

"Get her something you like," John suggested. "Something you can share with her, that won't make you want to rip off someone's head."

Sherlock pulled a face at the idea as he followed John into their room. "I believe I have very few interests I can share with her," he said. "I enjoy murders, crime and having sex with you."

"Well, as long as you have a list of things to avoid sharing with her." John threw him a grin over his shoulder.

Then the grin on John's face fell away. "Wait…will you be able to do this? I thought we wanted Moriarty to doubt how important Ava was-"

"You'll be there." Sherlock shrugged. "I will have to be a little more distant than usual but my being free and not being there would probably raise more suspicion than anything else. I cannot make a double bluff seem too obvious."

John nodded.

"Though I should probably explain that to Mycroft and Lestrade. They have been using a certain phrase lately."

"Yeah?" John asked, yanking off his top. "What's that then?"

"They…they both referred to Ava as…as my daughter."

The smile the crossed John's face was one Sherlock would never tire of seeing. "Yeah?" John asked, sounding utterly pleased.

His reaction made the phrase even more precious. "It is foolish to use it at the moment," Sherlock sighed.

John reached out for his hand. "I promise," he said firmly, "I promise, one day we'll hear that phrase as often as we want to."

Sherlock doubted it. As far as the family unit went, the world still saw him as the interloper, the add-on. They didn't automatically see John and Ava as his. It was frustrating beyond belief. But, not wanting to spoil the moment, he just squeezed John's hand back and nodded.

* * *

Next Chapter: Sports Day


	18. Chapter 17: June 15th

**Chapter Seventeen**

15th June

(Sports Day)

* * *

Author's Note: Thank you so much to swissmiss for editing and talking me through this chapter.

**Warning: **Violence and **cliff hanger** at the end of this chapter

* * *

There had been nothing all morning. Absolutely nothing. Either Moriarty was preparing himself for some grand showdown or he'd heard Sherlock had agreed to go to Sports Day and decided that was torment enough.

Honestly, what had he been thinking? The idea of spending time with John and Ava had been appealing until he'd had time to consider that he would be surrounded by dull parents who looked at him with suspicious gazes and small children who were annoying at the best of times and seemed determined to ask him why he wasn't a girl if Ava's Dad was his boyfriend.

It was insanity; surely.

_You meeting us there or coming with?_

The text from John made him roll his eyes. _I'm on the other side__ of London. I am not coming back to go out again. SH_

_No, that's only for really important things like getting me to fish your mobile off the table so you don't have to get up._

Sherlock smiled. _You could have said no. SH_

_To your summoning? Yeah right._

_Fascinating how much power you believe I have over you. SH_

The text alert sounded almost immediately after, making Sherlock frown.

John was not that quick.

_Happy anniversary, darling. Hope you got our girl a good present. I certainly did. Xxx_

Sherlock stared at the text, his heart freezing as he read the words.

Ava?

No, he'd mentioned an anniversary. Ava hadn't been born yet when Sherlock had-

Molly.

_As if that's news. See you there x_

Sherlock winced at John's text and checked his watch.

He still had some time.

* * *

The people Molly worked with were hideously incompetent.

"Of course she intended to come into work," Sherlock spat in annoyance. "Look, she left her work out. People who feel a bit ill or know there is even the smallest chance they won't be in the next day don't leave their work out like that. They tidy a little."

"But-"

"And in how many years that she has worked here has she called in sick?"

"Well, a few-"

"Exactly: called in!" Sherlock felt like banging his head against the wall. "Therefore the lack of a phone call should have alerted you to something being wrong, shouldn't it?"

"I-"

"Oh, get out." Sherlock threw up his hands in disgust. "Find someone halfway intelligent for me to talk to."

The lab assistant fled as if being chased by Satan himself. Pacing, Sherlock took a last sweep of the room, confirming there was nothing of use in Molly's office.

Stupid, stupid!

* * *

He'd only ever been to Molly's flat three times. Once, before John and Baker Street, he had turned up on her doorstep, knowing she would let him in because he needed a quiet place to think and his flat had been too far away.

The other two times had been after St Bart's. Every single time the flat had been a place of quiet and refuge, despite the loud wallpaper and overly decorated cups. He hadn't even particularly minded the cat that regarded him haughtily before flipping its tail up in disgust.

But it wasn't only these thoughts that made his lip curl when he saw the mess they'd made of her flat. It was the fact that someone, someone professional, neat and careful had taken her and then someone else had come back to wreck the place, destroy it just because they could and because it was fun.

Moriarty.

She'd had a coffee in the morning. Her cup had been washed, dried and replaced but Molly had a thing about the angles of her mug handles, and the one that had been tidied away wasn't right. Smeared across the cupboards in red splattered spray paint were the words 'she'll be as dead as you should have been'.

Focus. Ignore it and focus.

Professionals. Why waste two visits? Was that why it had been quiet all morning? Professionals unwilling to compromise their standards to amuse Moriarty?

There were three that could possibly be.

One that was likely.

Suddenly it seemed as if his previous thoughts about finding a peaceable way to sway Raymond Setter were as foolish as Anderson's attempts to solve a crime.

* * *

"I admire your restraint," Mycroft said as Sherlock paced.

Restraint? Only Mycroft would call it that. And only Mycroft would think of it as something to be admired. Throwing him a filthy look, Sherlock continued to pace the morgue floor.

"He knows," Sherlock growled eventually. "He knows I know more-"

"I doubt it," Mycroft replied easily from his chair.

Spinning about to his brother, Sherlock drew in a frustrated breath. "Why else do this? Why else have assassins kidnap someone? Whatever happens from this point-" He broke off, mind still galloping.

How to save Molly without destroying any chance of allying with Setter?

Thankfully, Mycroft made no comment about that. "Has he provided you with a time limit?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Extrapolating from how long it took me to find their base of operations originally, and then adding in the necessity now from Molly's plight, I can assume that it would take me another four and a half hours at least."

"You need to be seen looking," Mycroft pointed out. "Not sitting in the morgue constantly."

Sherlock disagreed. He deliberately sat on the nearest chair, stabbing his fingers under his chin. "He knows that I should have seen a lot more on the trips I made. Returning to a few places will be prudent but, for the majority, I simply would need to mentally re-examine what I have seen."

With a rather put-upon sigh, Mycroft looked at his watch. "You should go out in thirty-five minutes," he decided. "And I believe Ava has just started racing."

Derailed, Sherlock lifted his head in confusion. "Don't," he said sharply.

With a long, scouring look, Mycroft nodded.

* * *

He stood in the alleyway where Mariam Foster had assassinated Eric Pearsons, barely seeing what was in front of him as his mind tried to tear up another problem.

What was he meant to do when he could finally walk into the building to save Molly?

She was still alive, which meant that it was yet another game, another punishment. Another demonstration as part of Moriarty's seemingly endless revenge for not joining him that day. As soon as he set foot in the warehouse, she would be dead.

Yet, if he took too long, chances were she would also die.

"_I don't count."_

Her voice, soft and bluntly frank, rang through his head. He'd hardly seen her since he'd returned to John, neither one wanting to remind the man of what had happened at Bart's. It had just seemed easier to let the connection fade to simple phone calls about organs.

He hadn't even known that she had a serious boyfriend now who was about to propose.

Sentiment. Without it, he could accept that the assassins had simply done their job and work with them regardless. With it….

Some things could not be forgiven.

He couldn't bring them both down. He could topple Moriarty's finances, end his arms dealing, ruin those he had bought in the press, break his links with the drug dealers but this…this one partnership was one he didn't know how to break without having it backfire on him and risk everyone he was trying to protect.

He slammed the door closed as he got into the backseat of the car Mycroft had provided, then he closed his eyes as they pulled away. With his mind whirring with the puzzle, the trap he was becoming caught in, he let his hands find his phone, stroking over the call button for John.

Without entirely meaning to, he pressed it.

"Are you all right?" John demanded on the second ring.

"Setter has Molly." Sherlock swallowed, tipping his head back.

"God…" John sucked in a breath. "Is she-"

"Alive." Sherlock opened his eyes. "I am struggling to find a way to keep her that way."

"Let me-"

"No." Sherlock sat up straight. "No, you go anywhere near a situation that could end with another dead body and you will lose that case."

The sound John made was gut-wrenching. "I am not sitting at home while you risk your life. Not for that."

"I don't have a plan." Sherlock adjusted the phone. "I know that Setter hates Moriarty, I know that he disagrees with some of the jobs. I know he made a move to remove Moriarty before, but I don't know why-"

"He did?" John sounded as if that were new information.

"I told you that." Sherlock scowled, even though John couldn't see him.

"Is this one of those times where you told me and I made no comment because I wasn't in the flat at the time?"

Possibly.

Unimportant.

"Regardless." Sherlock shook his head. "I still do not know why they are allied and without that knowledge-"

"What would you have done?" John asked. "If you had an organisation that you needed to keep subdued how would you make sure they were strong enough to be a useful ally but still were able to control them?"

"Insurance," Sherlock sniffed. "Take something they valued, threaten it, keep it."

"What does Setter value?"

"Guns."

John sighed. "Anything else?"

An image popped into his head of the couple on a date the other night.

_Not so different_.

He'd thought it and then immediately thought that there was a more amicable solution.

Why?

They'd reminded him of himself and John. And if someone had wanted them to cooperate-

Ava.

They would have taken Ava.

"He has someone," Sherlock breathed. "Who?"

"Who has-"

"Shut up, John," Sherlock ordered. "I need to think."

"I could hang up-"

"Shush," Sherlock breathed.

Raymond Setter, three friends all from school, all in the business. All with children also in the business. A company that worked because of their strong bond, unlike the nameless, faceless groups that many usually dealt with.

Setter was the boss though. Had to be someone close to him. Sherlock had seen the son, seen him on a date.

Daughter? Holed up in St Lucia for some unknown reason.

Children? Her husband had died eighteen months ago-

That nagged at something. When he had been trying to dismantle the operation before he came back there had been a wobble somewhere.

A father going after his child and killed for it?

Possibly.

Didn't matter in all honesty.

"If someone had Ava, would you risk her to bring them down?"

"At the moment?" John muttered, sounding peeved.

"What happened?"

"She's being a brat," John sighed. "It…she…never mind." He sounded as if he were taking a cleansing breath. "I suppose it would depend on the chances that taking Moriarty down would work."

Clever John, following his thought process. "You would need convincing?" Sherlock sighed. "Which I cannot do because if they are not convinced they will tell Moriarty."

"You're still their best shot," John said quietly. "They know that they need to do something to get the kid back."

"And if it's the case that they could talk and be convinced after killing Molly?"

John's breath hitched. "I…could you?"

"No."

John was silent.

"He knows something." Sherlock shook his head in annoyance. "And that any effective attempt to bring him down would mean allying with them. I cannot bring down Setter. Not without being in exactly the same position as before."

Assassins. John.

Ava. Lestrade. Mrs Hudson. Mycroft even.

"I'll talk to you in the morning," Sherlock said slowly.

"Sherlock-"

He hung up on John and ignored the next call from him, letting it go straight to answerphone.

* * *

"You're ten minutes later than Moriarty said you would be."

The warehouse was a good pick. One entrance and exit in the main work-floor and without any overlooking balconies from the smaller rooms on floors above, thus limiting any chances of them being taken unaware.

Raymond Setter was still a great bear of a man as he sat in a chair to the side. Scattered around the sides of the room were various men – assassins - ten in all. All looking like tigers waiting to pounce at the slightest move.

That wasn't what held his attention, though. For in the middle of the dusty space was Molly, tied to a chair, her hair bedraggled and eyes brimming with fear and tears.

Gagged and exhausted.

"Rush hour traffic is a nightmare," Sherlock said, walking steadily to her. The men said nothing when he bent over to look into her eyes.

Despite the terror, she stared at him, then shifted her gaze frantically to the doorway he had just walked through.

_Run_.

Although he was furious that she would think he would even consider leaving her here like this, he leaned in to ask quietly, "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head, her body trembling with fear.

She wasn't lying. That was good. If he lost his temper he had no idea what he might try and do just to prove a point.

He straightened and levelled his chin. "Why?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at Setter. "This is hardly your usual modus operandi. Do you want something?"

Setter shook his head.

"Not even your grandson?"

The atmosphere suddenly changed. Charged. They were all suddenly far more alert; all eyes snapped to Setter to see his reaction.

"What do you know of it?" Setter asked, looking over at the son, a warning clear in his gaze.

_Son more inclined to act without thinking. Could be useful; could also be dangerous._

"That unless Moriarty falls you won't get him back." Sherlock stepped between Setter and Molly. Stupid, useless, but it helped a little.

"We've tried." Setter examined his gun. "And you must know I cannot let her leave her alive," he said casually, as if they were discussing the weather.

It was his business, Sherlock supposed. But he'd blurred it by making it a family company.

Was that more or less helpful when dealing with Setter?

"Or? He won't kill the boy-" Sherlock tried, thinking of the promise he'd once made if anyone had killed Ava or John.

"There are worse things." Setter sat back, meeting his eyes. "You have a child, do you not? What would you not do to spare her pain?"

_Anything._

"Not my child," Sherlock said dismissively, as if he couldn't care less.

_Absolutely anything._

Behind him, Molly drew in a sob. It echoed horrifically throughout the room. Sherlock restrained the urge to snap.

There had to be a way around this. He refused to believe Moriarty had won this without realising the full magnitude of Sherlock's plans.

"If you do this," Sherlock breathed, "I will not forgive it."

Setter nodded, as if he'd expected that. "And he knows it. Effective, isn't it? Watching two enemies fight. You knew that with Moriarty and Moran. The arguments they had before you shot him."

"Was he a friend?" Sherlock asked, utterly unconcerned.

"No. He was the one that took my grandson." Setter smiled tightly. "I do hope it was painful."

"Excruciating." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "He took some time to bleed out. You should be thanking me," Sherlock said frankly.

"Why? You sure as hell didn't do it for him."

Sherlock felt his heart thud to a stop at the voice. Opposite him, Setter blinked in surprise and the assassins stirred again.

"You shouldn't be here," Sherlock muttered, glaring at the wall.

"If you use that fucking pointless argument again, I'm shooting you and saving everyone the trouble," John muttered. His voice came from a bit lower down. He must be crouching to inspect Molly.

It wasn't a pointless argument. It was valid.

Stupid man.

"You must be John Watson." Setter was eying John up with an interest that bordered on approval. "You've got good aim."

"Want a demonstration?" John asked with a bite to his voice.

And people said he was the one that rushed heedlessly into danger. Distracted, Sherlock tried to find his earlier line of thought. The arrival of John had completely upset his attempts to reason with Setter, such as they had been.

"What are you meant to do to her?" John asked. He sounded odd. Disturbed by the violence? Unlikely given his military service. Then-

Sherlock shook the thoughts from his head. Now was not the time to be deducing John.

"Shoot her in the head," Setter said tonelessly. "You have no idea how much I would like it to be Moriarty."

"You do this, it won't be," Sherlock promised, all but snarling. He was feeling more and more trapped by the lack of options.

"We are rats in a trap." Setter shook his head. "My hands are tied and-" He stopped and a look of confusion came over his face as he focused on something behind Sherlock.

Turning halfway around, Sherlock glanced at John and Molly out of the corner of his eye: John, who was holding her tight, and Molly, who was nodding at whatever he was saying.

"If you accept it, accept what we have to do and that it is his fault," Setter said slowly. Sherlock turned his full attention to him as he saw John stand and walk around Molly. It was a far less vulnerable position and no longer required a watchful eye. "We could still find a way, find a weakness to use. We have no wish to be his dogs any longer. Every day my grandson is-"

There was an almighty bang as a gun was fired. Sherlock whirled around properly, horrified, ready to unleash holy hell if either one of them had been hurt.

But what he saw defied belief.

Molly had gone limp in the chair and John stood behind her, a gun in his hand. Blood was already soaking her hair and the top of her jumper.

John had shot her.

Sherlock couldn't think.

John had shot Molly.

"Oh!" Setter breathed. "That might work."

* * *

Next Week!


	19. Chapter 18: June 15th to 16th

Chapter Eighteen:

15th June to 16th June

* * *

Thank you for putting up with that cliff hanger and to everyone who read and reviewed :)

Special thanks again to swissmiss.

* * *

John had shot Molly?

Sherlock stared blankly at the blood. It seemed to be everywhere, pouring from her long hair, soaking her clothes and the chair.

"What…" He gaped and felt as if he were struggling to breathe from the shock and horror of it. "How could-"

"Quickly," John snarled. "Call."

"An ambulance?"

John nodded and looked past him. "Police will be here in seconds. Go. You can twist it?" he asked as Sherlock dialled.

Setter nodded and then made some sort of signal to his people. There must have been a hidden exit that Sherlock hadn't seen because they all vanished quickly, leaving only Setter, who stepped forward.

"You used one of mine?"

John nodded and tossed him the gun, even as he pressed sterile gauze (he'd brought a gauze?) to the back of Molly's head.

Sherlock rattled off the details and address trying to focus on-

The back-

Oh!

"Superficial?" Sherlock breathed as he ended the call. "It's a superficial wound?"

"No." John took a shuddering breath. "Just not… not dead. As small a risk of brain damage as there can be."

"You can claim-" Sherlock spun to Setter.

"I aimed, and John startled me. Sirens were sounding. Wasn't worth another go-" Setter hesitated suddenly.

"I can make it look worse than it is." John was pulling out a bag of-

Blood?

The gauze?

He'd planned this?

Sherlock sat down in shock.

"We can fake scans, vitals. Make it look as if she's comatose or severely damaged. Even make it seem like it's touch and go." John inserted the transfusion carefully to keep Molly's blood levels up. "All Moriarty needs to see is the police, the ambulance and her, like this." John lifted the bag and looked up at them both. "Two doctors, one nurse. All trusted," he said quickly. "Go," he ordered, looking up at Setter.

"We'll need to talk-"

"When he's stopped sulking that his brother can think of a plan more effective than his," John offered as he stared at Setter.

What?

Sherlock whipped his head round to stare fully at John. "He did what?"

John's focus snapped to Molly. Sherlock didn't need to look to see that Setter had vanished. "It was the only chance," John said tightly, completely focused on what he was doing. "They went along with it. If they go back now, they risk the boy being hurt."

"Along with it? This…." Sherlock couldn't even call it a plan.

Insanity was more like it.

"Do you think I'm capable of this?" John asked, his voice wavering a little as he worked, standing and letting Molly's limp body fall as far forward as the ropes would allow so he could see the damage. "Of shooting her like this?"

"I don't…I didn't…"

"Then neither does he. And it takes perfect aim to do this, to shoot the back of the head and keep the angle from hitting anything important. You couldn't have done it."

"And so the only situation that makes sense is the one Setter will provide him with." Sherlock shook his head, feeling more lost than he ever had in his life. The sirens made him suck in a panicked breath. "John-"

"I'm saving her." John didn't look up. "Mycroft has planned this, Sherlock, have some faith."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock asked, still struggling to formulate some sense out of all this.

"I was sort of hoping this wouldn't be needed." John's hands still didn't falter as he worked to limit the damage. In the far reaches of the building, Sherlock could hear doors being flung open in a panicked rush, heralding the arrival of the police. "But…you know they wouldn't have let her go alive."

Sherlock stared and nodded slowly, closing his eyes as the police drew closer.

Mycroft had better have planned this thoroughly.

* * *

They hadn't spoken.

John sat on the hospital chair, staring at nothing while Sherlock stared at him. At the blood on his clothes and the distant expression on his face.

"I underestimate you," Sherlock murmured after a while.

"Most do," John said frankly, still sounding as if he were miles away.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked, not sure what else to do.

John shook his head ever so slightly. His skin was starting to look grey with shock. "I shot her," he breathed suddenly, leaning forward to put his head between his knees.

Finally.

Sherlock slid off his seat and onto his knees in front of John. "You saved her. They wouldn't have let her go without killing her."

"I still…I shot her." John's voice shook. "What if something-"

"It won't." Sherlock cupped his hands around the sides of John's head, hoping to ground him. "It won't. And…"

John looked up slightly, meeting his eyes. "What?"

"You must have been a damned good army surgeon."

John huffed out a laugh and pressed his forehead to Sherlock's. "Would you believe the first time I had to deal with a gunshot wound, I almost fainted."

Sherlock smiled. "Almost," he pointed out.

John lifted his head away from Sherlock and took a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes wet. On his knees, Sherlock watched him closely.

"Brilliant," he suddenly said.

"What is?" John asked. He sounded tired.

"You."

John laughed wetly. "No wonder you like it when I do that."

It was impossible not to claw at him and pull him down, kissing desperately until they were both out of breath and they leaned against each other, breathing in deeply.

"My brave John," Sherlock murmured.

"For shooting an unarmed woman, tied to a chair?" John asked.

"Yes."

John shook his head.

* * *

Hours later they were still waiting. Despite the fact that John had left Ava with Mrs Hudson and then surrounded by protection, Sherlock still felt the need to keep an eye on things himself. He finally dragged his eyes from the camera feed of the hallway on his phone and the half-hourly texts from Mycroft's people when he felt the weight of John's head fall heavily against his shoulder.

"We should go," Sherlock said. He turned his head so he could brush his nose into John's hair. "You're half asleep."

"I can't leave," John murmured. "Not until I know that nothing went wrong."

The answer was hardly surprising; Sherlock had seen the stubborn look on John's face when it had been suggested they go home earlier.

"Coffee?" he asked, putting the phone in his pocket.

Stirring himself, John nodded. "No attempts at drugging it though," he added with a look. "Or sugar."

"How amusing." Sherlock rolled his eyes as he stood.

* * *

There was obviously something wrong the moment he returned. Security guards, along with Mycroft's people ,were crowded into the waiting room, dragging someone off of John.

Not to mention the yelling.

"-the sweetest person in the world and you and him drag her into this? How could you-"

That would be Christopher Thomas then. Molly's partner.

Sherlock pushed through (or rather glared at Mycroft's people, who knew him too well to do anything but move in the face of that look) and caught a glimpse of John; his eye was already swelling as he struggled to his feet and winced.

"Hardly helpful," Sherlock muttered at him disapprovingly.

"You-" Christopher made a move as if to launch again but was held back. "She helped you-"

"She's alive," Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice cold and disinterested. The tone must have worked because from the looks of it, Christopher's anger increased exponentially.

"At least he apologised," he roared.

Sherlock shot John a warning look.

"We did what we could," John said, hissing as he moved. Christopher must have caught him elsewhere with his fists.

Really, if John didn't fight back though, what did he expect?

"And now she's in a hospital bed and she might…" Christopher broke off, choking on his grief. "I could-"

John looked away.

"Get out," Christopher suddenly yelled. "Both of you; I don't want you anywhere near her."

* * *

They didn't speak in the taxi. Couldn't; it was far too risky. Nor did they speak as they opened the door, knowing all too well that Mycroft's people would hear.

In silence they climbed the stairs, John's footsteps heavy with the faintest hint of the limp.

That would have to be gotten rid of as soon as-

What had happened?

Sherlock paused in the doorway. Something was missing, something was wrong…

"Ah," John sighed. "Should have told you…Ava broke your skull."

Immediately, his eyes went to the fireplace that looked bereft. The skull, the first thing he had ever found based solely on deduction when he had been a child…

"On purpose," John added as he walked past Sherlock and sank into the sofa. "Sorry… I… sorry."

Unwilling to deal with the issue at that moment, Sherlock sat next to him. "You should have fought back," he muttered, noting the sore ribs and shoulder.

For a moment John looked at him, clearly confused by the sudden change of topic. "Oh, well…" He shrugged as if knowing there was no good reason for letting Christopher hit him. "Cathartic," he said after a moment. "I imagine it was cathartic for him."

"But not for you." Sherlock turned his head to him.

"A little bit," John said carefully. "I…I've been angry at you for so long for faking your death but…Jesus, not telling him that she would make it…" He swallowed uncomfortably. "Not being able to properly explain…it's been one of the hardest nights of my life." He turned his head to meet Sherlock's gaze. "I always assumed it had been so easy…like a trick. It's not."

"No." Sherlock turned his head to the fireplace, unwilling to look at John. "It was far easier for me than Molly. I left. She stayed and faced you, watched you, heard you."

"You didn't find it hard?" John asked doubtfully.

"I avoided it. It was far too…" Sherlock broke off, disliking the thought and the vaguely remembered terror that he would find it impossible to stay quiet if he looked at John during those years away.

It had been easier not to look.

"I can see why."

"You would never have looked away," Sherlock said firmly.

"Maybe not." John turned completely towards him and stroked his hair. "But that's because you're one of the strongest people I know."

Strongest? Sherlock shot him a doubtful look. "You must be tired," he said eventually. "If you feel the need to spout such nonsense."

* * *

They'd fallen asleep on the sofa.

Damn it.

Wincing, Sherlock eased himself off and reached for his phone as John stirred and hissed at the tired, aching muscles from both of them cramming themselves onto the uncomfortable surface.

"Yes?"

"They're moving her to a specialist unit in Cornwall in a few days."

Sherlock let out all his breath in relief. They'd agreed she needed to disappear and Mycroft moving her to get better treatment would have been expected.

Even if it had been the code for 'Molly's okay'.

* * *

John went to bed, stumbling as he went.

Sherlock couldn't sleep.

Molly was safe; she would be under protection and there had been no complications. Christopher would go with her, ending that branch that Moriarty could use against them.

Lestrade knew. What he didn't know was the amount of protection he had tailing him. It was highly likely that people in Scotland would hear his complaints if he did find that out.

Mrs Hudson was covered by those protecting Ava. Mycroft had his own people. Everyone else that could have been used against them was already dead.

At some point he needed to meet with Setter, but only once things had calmed down a little. Moriarty might be furious or amused with the turn of events, but either way he would likely be keeping a close eye on Setter.

Still, Sherlock didn't really need him. He simply needed Setter to walk away and stay out of it all; to not be called on by Moriarty. Likely they would have to coordinate at some point so Setter would know when to try and get his grandson back; a double attack where both could take advantage of the distraction the other one caused.

It suddenly looked as if it might all just work.

For the first time Sherlock held his breath as he examined everything he had done again and all he had yet to do; the minute details that built up until with one yank he could make the world fall around Moriarty.

It might actually work.

He smiled.

* * *

"How is Molly?" Mrs Hudson asked when he went down. "That poor girl-"

"She will be moved to a specialist unit," Sherlock replied woodenly, glancing at the door to the spare room where Ava had stayed throughout the entire ordeal. "Is she awake?" he asked, nodding at the door so Mrs Hudson would know who he was talking about.

"No, poor little love; it took her ages to go off last night."

"She was upset?"

Inwardly he sighed as the kettle went on. "She…" Mrs Hudson seemed to be picking her words carefully. "She was disappointed you weren't there yesterday. Of course you had a good reason, dear, but she doesn't understand these things. Thankfully."

"She broke my skull." It came out far more petulant than he had intended it to.

To his amazement she chuckled. "Knocked it off as calm as you please and put her medal there instead. Looked John straight in the eye as she did it."

The idea infuriated him. "And why is that funny?" he asked in a dangerous tone.

"Oh..." She leaned over to pat his hand. "It was the spit of you in a temper. Ice cold and defiant all the way."

Oh.

The anger faded in the wake of a blast of…something both uncomfortable and wonderful.

And dread.

Ava did not need to grow up to be like him.

* * *

Hours later he watched Ava cuddle up with John from the doorway. Exhausted, John had just pulled her into bed as she sobbed out an apology to him.

It was better that she apologised to John. Her attempts to apologise to him hadn't made him feel any better. Far better to say that they were even: he'd missed her win (win!) and she'd broken his skull. They were both as bad as each other, though that idea hadn't sat well with him.

He certainly hadn't needed to hear the sobbed splurge of information earlier that had almost made his eyes prick.

Instead, he watched, content as John and Ava curled up under the covers. Both safe. The covers shifted as John moved to get comfortable.

"You shouldn't be up," John scolded when he caught sight of Sherlock, turning even more so he was propped up against the pillow and Ava was wriggled into his lap. He winced slightly when Ava pressed against a bruise.

"You were snoring," Sherlock said. He lifted himself from where he had been leaning and walked over to the bed.

"You all right?" John asked with some concern.

Nodding, Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, very aware of the way Ava was focused on him.

_The spit of you_.

God, he hoped not. She should be like John. Wonderful, brave John, who reached out so that the tips of their fingers touched, then slid their hands together, linking their fingers.

Grateful for the comfort, Sherlock stroked his fingers over the back of John's, watching as Ava's gaze dipped to the sight and a small smile crossed her face.

"Sherlock was being brave," she muttered, turning to look up at John.

No, it had been John. John who had-

"I know." John smiled down at her and rubbed his cheek against her hair. "Very brave," he added, raising his eyes seriously to Sherlock.

"Like superhero brave?" Ava asked in a delighted tone.

Sherlock almost sighed at the slow, gleeful smile that spread over John's face. "You know, I think he was exactly that brave."

Ridiculous pair. Sherlock let out an annoyed sound as he stood. "Don't be an idiot," he huffed. It had been John that had been brave, John who had done more than Sherlock had thought possible.

"He walked into a room of bad guys," John added, sounding far too amused. "Completely unarmed."

"Why?" Ava asked, as if had been a stupid thing to do.

"Because he was trying to save someone," John said, his voice suddenly losing the teasing edge as he watched Sherlock.

Idiot.

"Like a hero?"

John nodded solemnly and Sherlock shook the foolish notion away. "We need tea," he said, uncomfortable.

"I'll make it," Ava announced with glee as she leapt from the bed, clearly having decided that everything in the world was back to the way it should be as she vanished from the room.

Oh, to be five.

John, wincing in her wake, flopped back in the bed. "If you love me at all you will save me from that fate. I swear she adds dishwater to her tea."

* * *

Better? No cliffhanger this time!


	20. Chapter 19: 20th June to 6th July

**20th June to 6th July**

**Chapter Summary: John and Sherlock deal with the aftermath of what happened at sports day.**

* * *

**Chapter Note: Ava and Sherlock are watched a gameshow called "Pointless". You can find a clip of it at http:"/"www"."youtube"."com"/"watch?v=RGDz42yzezA but basically you have to try and find the most unusual answer and score the lowest marks. **

**(just remove the speechmarks)**

* * *

**20****th**** June**

As he'd been up for nearly thirty-three hours, Sherlock thought it was only right that he be allowed to sleep in that morning. He was meant to be sulking, to be in shock. To be doubting himself again, which meant he could actually get things done without having to construct a misdirection for every step that he took.

And there were benefits to still being in bed when John came back from dropping Ava at school.

Usually.

Usually they would be tangled up in each other, fast and desperate or slow and achingly teasing. Instead, Sherlock had heard the stairs creak to the rhythm of John's feet twenty minutes ago.

Molly.

John had barely slept since he'd crashed that morning.

What was there to say? It had been the only available option that had made sense. From the way the conversation had been going, John's actions had saved Molly's life.

Even so, John couldn't sleep and Sherlock didn't know what to say.

In the end he tried blackmail.

"I'll sleep more if you come to bed," Sherlock announced as he walked into the living room wearing only his pyjama bottoms.

The fact that John hesitated was worrying.

"I'll say please," Sherlock added and gained a tired smile for his efforts.

A half-hearted one, but it was a start.

In their room, Sherlock rested his chin on John's shoulder thoughtfully. "You did the right thing," he said quietly. "And they've said-"

"They won't know until she wakes up and they can't risk that at the moment," John snapped. "Don't patronise me."

"Then stop wallowing in this self-pity – you did what had to be done." Sherlock turned away. "It was the only way forward."

After a minute, John let out a loud sigh and rolled over, following Sherlock and pressing against his back.

"I just…I need a few days," John murmured.

"Why? You didn't let me shut down when I…" Sherlock pulled away from the word 'scared'; foolish word to use. "...was unsure. We need you now. Be miserable later."

There was a short breath of a chuckle against his neck and then a nod.

"Sleep," Sherlock instructed.

* * *

It was probably the last day he could get away with pretending to be lost again. As it was, he was oddly spending it sitting on the sofa with Ava, her eyes as round as saucers when the bar on the television screen went down to zero as they watched _Pointless_*.

"How do you know that?" she asked in awe.

"It's useful," he said, shaking his head at the television screen. "And a crime that people don't know the periodic table." Not one in a hundred people? The world was truly filled with morons.

"What's that?"

Ah. Did five-year-olds learn about that or had she not paid attention again?

"Ask your father," Sherlock told her carefully. The last time he had attempted to explain something to her she had become utterly confused and had then told the teacher that their ideas were wrong and John had gone in to apologise. He wasn't exactly eager for a repeat.

It was his show tonight. The next question the programme asked was about Underground stations beginning with B.

"Don't be stupid," he yelled at the television. "Of course someone will say Blackfriars…" The door shut as John walked in and Sherlock turned to him. "As if no one in a hundred people would say Blackfriars?"

Spotting the program, John rolled his eyes. "You and quiz shows," he muttered under his breath as he took the shopping into the kitchen.

Unusually for the little girl, who generally liked to inspect John's hoard and whine about the lack of sugar in the bags, Ava stayed in her seat next to Sherlock, pressing against him as she watched their exchange.

"Barbican?" John offered as he unpacked the bags.

Sherlock sent him a withering look.

"Baker Street," Ava announced and turned her head up to Sherlock expectantly.

Amused, Sherlock pulled his daughter up onto his lap and rested his chin on her hair. "You know better ones than that," he encouraged gently.

"Favouritism," John called from the kitchen.

"That doesn't begin with a 'B'," Ava scolded, leaning forward to look at him, then immediately returned to press her back into Sherlock, snuggling close as she hummed thoughtfully in a manner that suggested she was trying to seem more grown up than she was.

"Brixton," John offered, coming close and giving Sherlock a smile.

Their first case. How was it so long ago?

"Beacon tree," Ava suddenly announced.

What? They both looked down at her. That had been impressive-

"Cheat," John said, pinching her nose as he nodded at the screen where the answers had gone up.

Clever girl.

* * *

A rainbow cake?

Sherlock turned his head as he looked at the notes John had made for Ava's party.

Six. She was turning six. That had happened far too quickly.

"What will you tell her?" he asked as John flicked through the papers that had been sent to him by Hammonds.

"About?" John asked, scribbling something in the margin.

"This?"

Dark blue eyes flickered up at him, then down at the page. "What will I tell Ava about cutting off weapons smuggling?"

"Her party," Sherlock snapped. "Why on earth would I be talking about that?"

"Because I am currently trying to help you with this because you can't be bothered to read it, which I'm starting to think is code for 'don't want to try to understand it'."

"That is not-"

"What was it about her party you were asking?" John asked swiftly.

Deciding to accept the redirection as it was in his favour, Sherlock sniffed haughtily. "What will you tell her my reason is for not being there?"

It was a miniscule reaction, but Sherlock still caught the flinch. "I…that you have a case."

"An important one," Sherlock insisted.

"Yeah." John frowned at the page and the rubbed a hand over his forehead. "There'll be next year."

They hoped.

"She won't turn six again." Sherlock settled deeply into the sofa.

"No, next time it will be seven," John said absently. "Before we know it she'll be a teenager and all the joys that go along with that."

That sounded unpleasant. Sherlock met teenagers often in his line of work; rarely did he relish the experience. Though at least they knew how to properly use their phones and type, unlike certain people.

"That's far away though," Sherlock said carefully.

"Can still remember when I first brought her home. Five seemed so far away and yet…" John shrugged. "They change a lot in such a short space of time."

His voice had turned suddenly sad and wistful.

It was painful to study him, to see what John was trying to ignore. "The charges?" Sherlock asked.

"I…" John let the papers droop. "I have a meeting tomorrow to discuss it. They want to interview me again."

"And?"

"I keep…I see Molly." John took a breath. "I see her and the blood and they ask me about shooting Simone…I can't keep the images separate at the moment. Last time they hammered at me. They'll do it again and I…" He looked beseechingly at Sherlock. "How do I keep them separate?"

"You have to," Sherlock said instantly. "John, if you look-"

"I know," John replied, sounding as if his temper was fraying. "I know I have to, I know that. I just don't know if I can."

"Use the name," Sherlock said fiercely. "Listen to me." He slid forward purposefully, leaning towards where John was sitting, unsure if a further move would be accepted. "Every time they ask you a question you have to use a name instead of a pronoun in your head. Do not let them confuse you with 'she'. Do you understand?"

John nodded.

"John?"

"Yes." He tossed the paper on the coffee table. "I understand."

You'd better, Sherlock thought, glaring at him. You'd better.

* * *

**22****nd**** June**

"Well?"

"The eighth," John said, looking a little pale as he walked into Lestrade's office. "The judge wants to have all the evidence and statements in and he'll call us in for a discussion on the eighth to determine whether they should go ahead with the charges or drop them."

"And?" Sherlock stood, hating that he was hovering uselessly. "How was the interview?"

"Brutal." John all but collapsed into the chair. "But I kept a clear head," he said as he closed his eyes.

Good. "Easily?"

"Nope." John barely moved. "But I managed." He sighed and then sat up properly, tipping his head to Sherlock. "Listen-"

"No." Sherlock turned away and started rooting through Lestrade's files for a case out of habit. He knew that tone of voice.

"Sherlock-"

"I do not wish to hear-"

"Well, you fucking well will," John snapped fiercely. The suddenness of it made Sherlock pause in his raid and eye him carefully.

"Ava," John breathed, seeing that he had Sherlock's attention. "We need to discuss it."

"The party?" Sherlock asked looking back down.

"Custody."

The word was brutal and Sherlock's hands momentarily scrunched up the cardboard divider in the file cabinet for M as he spotted a shape through the misted glass.

"We need…we need to find a way to keep her with you, in case-"

"In case you go to prison and I try to bring down Moriarty alone? Excellent environment for a child," Sherlock said, trying not to react and looking at the files instead.

"Okay." John sounded beyond annoyed now as his voice dropped to a chilly tone. "Let's say the worst happens and you die and I go to prison. Who do you want to raise our daughter?"

Sherlock threw him a filthy look. "Not our daughter," he hissed pointedly.

A bitter laugh crashed through John. "Of course," he said, standing. "Of course, can't even have a conversation about it. I'll just dump her in a foster home now then, shall I?"

"What do you want me to say?" Sherlock snarled. "I don't want her."

Comprehension suddenly dawned and John seemed to barely restrain the urge to look at the door.

"You…" John licked his lips and seemed to take a strengthening breath. "You said you'd try."

It was fortunate that the situation called for John to sound unsure and unconvincing.

"We'll discuss it later," Sherlock said dismissively.

* * *

"What is wrong with you?" Sherlock snarled when they got back.

"I wasn't thinking." John had looked deathly pale during the ride home. "I didn't-"

"Clearly." Sherlock paced. He wanted…he wanted a fight, he wanted to tear into John and then push into him and shove everything but them aside and out but…John looked as if he could barely stand.

"I need to know," John said suddenly. "I need to know that she'll-"

"I can't." Sherlock stopped and turned. "If you put anything onto paper, if you make anything legal he will know and he will come for her."

"But what if-"

"I don't know." Sherlock shook his head, pacing again.

"But-"

"I don't know!" Sherlock exploded finally. "I don't…." He struggled to stop shouting, to keep his voice at a level where the words couldn't be made out at street level. "It can't happen," he said quietly. "It can't. You can't go to prison." And he couldn't. The idea was simply a block in Sherlock's mind and beyond it lay a messy tangle that he couldn't hope to deal with.

Not alone.

"Sherlock..." John's voice wavered. "She could…we could lose her because of this. If-"

"No." He strode forward and grabbed at John. "You've seen it; we are so close. A month, maybe two at the most."

"The judge will decide whether to proceed in two weeks," John argued.

"And then a court case, at the worst." Sherlock tightened his grip. "We'll run."

John gaped at him. "Don't be-"

"We'll run. As soon as I end this. If this case sends you to court, then we will run."

"You can't-"

"Why? I died for five years. I can assure you this is far less effort."

"All three of us?" John asked doubtfully.

Sherlock nodded. "Mycroft would help," he said carefully. "The case is barely getting any attention from journalists, no one's interested now and most people know you're innocent. They would hardly chase us."

"Leave London?" John asked, then shook his head.

"Together," Sherlock insisted, nuzzling at him. "Always together."

* * *

**6****th**** July (Ava's party)**

Incredibly, there was nothing happening!

"This is unbelievable," Sherlock complained. "Not one single murder of interest, look," he said, aiming the phone at John. "Nothing. Do something!"

John took a peek at the phone with an unimpressed expression then looked back down at his paper. "Can I deal with one murder charge at a time please?"

"Selfish," Sherlock muttered, snatching the phone back into his pocket as he paced again. "I am meant to be busy. I have nothing, John. Nothing."

"I have a headache," John muttered. "Do you want that instead?"

"Oh, you're of no use in this mood." Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa. "I need something to do while you're out."

"Bake a cake," John suggested in that same unhelpful tone.

Sherlock threw him an utterly filthy look, then a thoughtful one.

"You're bored too," he said in a far more pleasing tone.

John's mouth twitched in amusement. "I also have to leave in an hour to set up with Mrs Hudson."

"Set up?" Sherlock queried. "You mean chuck food on a table and balloons into a hall?"

"You can do the next one then," John said.

Then his breath hitched oddly and he shifted, clearly trying to distract his thoughts from the frankly foolish direction they had gone in.

"You'll have to explain it to me," Sherlock suggested. He got off the sofa and knelt in front of John to undo his belt. John's hands turned white as they held the newspaper pages open.

"You'd manage," John said, sounding torn between lust and sadness. It was an odd combination to hear, and one Sherlock didn't care for. Instead, he focused on tugging open the belt and undoing the jeans. Above him, the newspaper crackled as John put it to one side.

A strong, calloused, gentle hand cupped Sherlock's chin, pausing his movements. Refusing to let his own worries show, Sherlock simply raised a haughty brow at John. "You have an objection?" he asked snottily.

John's thumb traced his skin as John studied him carefully. Behind his dark eyes, Sherlock could see John's thoughts nagging and tugging at him, threatening to utterly distract him from what Sherlock had in mind.

"You think too much," Sherlock accused, pulling his chin from John's hand and tugging on the waist of John's jeans. The last thing John needed was to be distracted back into thinking halfway through; he wanted to have John's attention completely on him, not half on whether the teeth of the zip were about to become uncomfortable.

"Hypocrite," John said softly. There was still a tenseness to him that suggested his mind was still racing, tearing at him.

Frustrated, Sherlock pulled him down for a kiss, bending the man in half and kissing him so hard he half expected to find a way to crawl inside John and merge them together. He kissed until he felt something in John just sag and relax, even as his hand found a way to John's cock.

Distractions, he thought, noting that John was nowhere near as hard as he usually would have been. He needed to quiet the voice in John's head, the one tormenting him out of his mind.

How?

What did John do?

"Don't move," he whispered against John's mouth.

"I'm not." John looked at him with confusion.

Good. He'd got his attention. With a stern look, Sherlock smoothed both hands along John's arms and then firmly pushed them to the arms of the chair.

"Don't move," he repeated.

John dropped his gaze down and then back up. "Hand cuffs are in-"

"No." Sherlock nuzzled at his neck. "You have enough control. And no sounds either."

The gaze on Sherlock narrowed curiously, and then flickered to the clock.

"No looking away," Sherlock scolded. "Keep your eyes on mine at all times."

There was a waver. He could see it; John deciding whether to play along or push him away. Sherlock simply waited for the outcome. His heart sank when John looked away and towards the window.

"John?"

Still John said nothing.

"I…I want you to forget. For half an hour, just forget about everything."

John's eyes closed. Then, wonderfully, he shifted, hands gripping the edge of the armrest and hips sliding down a little so that it was easier for Sherlock to get to him. Lastly his head turned back and his eyes were suddenly fixed on Sherlock's with a brow raised in challenge.

Keeping his eyes locked on John, Sherlock slid down and sucked; a long hard movement that made John exhale loudly.

Sherlock shook his head, gaze fixed on John's face. John licked his lips and pressed them together tightly.

He played. He toyed, teased and tormented, trying to raise a strangled whine or stuttered gasp; trying to push John into concentrating on nothing else, absolutely nothing else but him. Slowly, he could feel it work, feel John give it all up to him, trusting him to take it all away.

When he finally made John come it was while he kissed him, inhaling whimpers and gasps so that nothing was wasted, nothing of John was wasted as he pumped a hand around them both. And once they had both panted and nuzzled at each other he slid down to lick it all up, purely in order to see the wide-eyed, disbelieving look on John's face and to keep the world away from him for just a little longer, until John shuddered with overstimulation.

Nuzzling his thigh, Sherlock breathed him in as John's hands uncurled from the arm of the chair and stroked through his curls. He felt as if…as if he should say something. Anything.

In all truth there was nothing to say.

* * *

He managed to wait about half an hour after John left to set up the party before he went out too. It was intolerable to sit and think and wonder about what it would be like; what John and Ava were doing.

Foolish. He knew himself well enough to know that even if he had been allowed to go to the party, he would have tried everything to get out of it. Lots of small children running around were not his choice of ways to spend an afternoon. What made him ache was the fact that he couldn't spend all day with the pair, couldn't enjoy them both on Ava's birthday and enter into their odd little tradition of going to the park and just spending the day together. That for the day before John's hearing he would have to spend most of it away for no good reason.

It was especially hard seeing John (wonderful, stoic and strong John) so exhausted and emotionally wretched. If it weren't for the fact that Moriarty would chase Sherlock around the globe, Sherlock would have shoved both Ava and John into the nearest taxi by now and fled somewhere he could properly hide them from the world.

Stupidly, he ended up close to the hall. There was a playing field next to it where some of the parents and children were sitting on picnic benches, the doors flung open so that the children could flit in and out.

Ava.

She and John were talking; John was holding out a plate of what looked like savoury food and Ava was giving him a thoroughly unimpressed look. She had a party dress on and her hair, which had probably been done by Mrs Hudson, was starting to escape the headband and bun.

Then she smiled at John and he gave her the same smile in return.

It was hateful; being reduced to spy on his own family. Utterly and completely hateful.

In his pocket, his phone vibrated.

Lestrade.

Relieved that he might actually have something to do, Sherlock turned on his heel and answered the phone.

* * *

On the floor, a gaping wound at his neck from where he had bled out, was Captain Joseph Hammond.

It was hardly a great sadness to see him dead; his comments to John had been foul and he was a hateful man. But John had respected his ability to do the job properly and he had been of some use tracking down the mercenary link.

"Dead for four hours," Lestrade sighed, folding his arms as he looked down. "Wife can't figure out what happened – she reckons she was close to at least one of the windows all day. She should have seen some sort of struggle in the garden. The son said he last talked to them at ten that morning before he went to his study and then out. Both statements agree that the vic came back in at two but went straight down to his shed."

Sherlock took one glance at it and disagreed. 'Office' was a far better term for the shed.

"He's in the military, home on leave for two weeks-"

Also incorrect. Home to finish off the work in taking down Omar Phelps and to cut the final cord when it was needed. He had been instructed to go back out immediately after and help his team take down what would be left of the organisation.

"-but according to his wife he has no enemies here-"

Sherlock let out a long sigh. Apparently Lestrade hadn't spotted the brewing problems within the family.

Still, it was worrying. Had Moriarty suspected or had Hammond simply overplayed his hand with the mercenaries, prompting them to take him out?

Lestrade had stopped talking and was staring at him with a frown.

"Has the name finally rung a bell?" Sherlock asked quietly, staring down at the unseeing eyes.

"Yep." Lestrade sounded annoyed now. "Are we stuffed?"

"If he knew, he'd be boasting. He'd have made a far more damaging move," Sherlock said, knowing his voice sounded utterly flat.

"Then what? This is just a random attack?"

"No. But he was a rather vile man. He was dealing with a lot of dangerous people. It's likely a miracle this never happened earlier." Sherlock knelt, as if examining Hammond.

Lestrade stepped closer, and then joined him. "So why do you look so upset?"

"Do I?" Sherlock looked up, schooling his features into an unreadable mask.

"I know you, you're not chuckling with glee."

"I have to investigate it, there's no way he would believe that I wouldn't want to," Sherlock said quietly, studying the wound intently. Five-inch blade. He rolled up the sleeves to look for defensive markers-

"And?"

It sounded far too stupid to say, so Sherlock just shook his head.

He'd miss Ava's birthday completely at this rate. John would be alone, worrying.

Fucking Hammond.

Why couldn't he have attempted diplomacy for another four days?

* * *

Next Chapter: Ava's birthday and John's hearing


	21. Chapter 20: July 7th to July 8th

**Chapter Twenty:**

**7th July to 8th**

**(AKA: Ava's Birthday and John's hearing)**

* * *

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has waited so patiently for this. You're all utterly fab and we seem to be on a bit of a home stretch now with this fic. :)

* * *

**7****th**** July (Ava's Birthday)**

Sherlock had been sure after meeting Hammond and seeing his treatment of John that he couldn't hate the man any more than he already did.

He'd missed Ava's birthday. Every single hour of it.

She was fast asleep, hugging her pillow; her little mouth pouting as she breathed and stirred the strands of hair falling over her face.

Six. She was six.

Bending, he stroked the strands back, trying to decide if she'd grown since he'd first met her. It was frustrating, especially because he hadn't paid that much attention to her at the time.

They should document her height. People did that, didn't they?

She turned, stirring just a little bit as he brushed his hand through her hair. Was her face a little older, a little more defined?

He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"All right?" John asked quietly from the doorway.

"You should be asleep," Sherlock said without turning. "You'll need to be alert tomorrow."

"Sherlock-"

"I hate Hammonds," Sherlock muttered petulantly.

John sighed and sat on the edge of Ava's bed. "Me too," he said with a smile.

"I didn't want to miss it all." Sherlock brushed her cheek with his thumb. "I know we agreed I'd have to miss a lot but…" He sighed and shook his head.

"Angelo spoiled her," John said after a moment. "She thought he was brilliant."

He wanted to see that. He had wanted so much-

"It was just a day," Sherlock frowned, a little baffled by his emotion. "I have no idea why-"

John reached out for his hand and squeezed it. "There'll be others," he said softly.

Sherlock stared at the sleeping child and tightened his grip on John's hand. "On Sunday," he started to say.

"Don't-"

"If it goes wrong-"

"Sherlock," John huffed. "What's the point of worrying about it, we can't change it-"

"You should leave then."

John blinked at him in surprise. "What?" he breathed. "Don't be so bloody-"

"They wouldn't expect it," Sherlock said dully. "You can protect Ava should Moriarty come after you but we are so close now…I'll find you afterwards."

"Are you…Jesus, you're serious," John said incredulously, touching his arm gently. "Sherlock, I'm not going to-"

"The worst case scenario sees me dead, you in prison and Ava in care. Let me limit what I can." Sherlock didn't look at him.

"I don't want to run-"

"Retreat," Sherlock corrected. "We can fight many things, John, but not this. Not while Moriarty is still alive to twist and pull at things."

John remained silent. Sherlock glanced over at him and inwardly sighed at the stern, searching look on John's face.

"It's a backup," Sherlock said eventually. "One you can gauge. In that room, I want you to decide one thing and one thing only: how safe our daughter will be at the end of it."

The hand on his squeezed. "Okay," John said quietly.

* * *

**8****th**** July**

He spent Sunday picking up tickets that couldn't be traced and stared at them with fear.

* * *

It felt as if he hadn't seen her in forever. Suddenly, Ava appeared in her jeans and t-shirt, flying down the stairs to him, her hair a mess.

Then she jumped at him.

His heart thudded wildly in his chest as he moved to catch her. God help him if she inherited John's lust for danger somewhere in her genes. He staggered backwards as she clung to him and buried her head in his shoulder, her hands clutching the material of his coat.

He'd missed her so much.

"I'm six," she announced with excitement, pulling back, her blue eyes dancing with pride.

"And a flying monkey apparently," Sherlock muttered, not entirely sure he'd ever want to see her flying through the air to him again. John shot him an odd look, as if unbothered by her dare-devil stunt.

"All right?" John asked as he reached the bottom step.

Sherlock nodded, feeling the tickets in his pocket as Ava turned to look at them both.

"Are you sure-"

They'd gone through it enough times. "Do I look like an idiot?" Sherlock asked, reluctantly letting Ava slide down when she wriggled, bored by their conversation.

"In the cleverist of ways…" John smiled weakly as he leaned against the wall.

"Where are we going?"

For a moment, Sherlock thought that she knew, that she'd overheard at some point. But she was staring at them both eagerly, excited.

"You and Sherlock are going out for an hour," John said, shooting Sherlock a quick look.

Oh. That.

"Why aren't you coming?" Ava asked, twisting from side to side as she looked up at John beseechingly.

John swallowed tightly and Sherlock clenched his hands. "I have a meeting," John said, looking over at him. There was a flicker of fear in his eyes.

There was never meant to be fear in John's eyes. Stepping forward, Sherlock wound a hand around Ava's head to cover her eyes. Reaching out with his free hand, he cupped the back of John's head and pulled him close to kiss him.

John poured himself into the kiss.

He had them both in his hands; the two people that he loved more than anything and…and he couldn't keep him safe. He couldn't keep them from the world or stop what was about to happen.

But, in a few hours' time, he could make them vanish. If he had to.

It could be months before he managed to see them again like this.

John pulled back a little and rested his forehead against Sherlock's, squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

How was he meant to do this?

Under his hand, Ava's nose wrinkled and scrunched in distaste.

"We're upsetting your daughter," Sherlock breathed, forcing himself to pull away. John closed his eyes and took a breath, and then nodded. When he was sure that John was composed, Sherlock lifted his hand and Ava gazed at them both with disapproval.

John rolled his eyes and smiled.

"You'll text," Sherlock said sincerely. "And don't hesitate to-"

"I know," John said, glancing down at Ava as he stroked her hair. "I know."

* * *

"But where are we going?"

"You'll see," Sherlock said, keeping an eye on her from where he sat in the seat opposite her on the train.

Ten minutes until the meeting for John. Twisting the phone in his hands he restrained the urge to tap it. Across from him, Ava stared up at a woman with interest, focused on her jewellery, then squinted up at the tube map longingly.

Following her gaze, he was struck with an idea.

* * *

When they finally reached the top of Monument he was free from watchful eyes and having to pretend. It was just himself and Ava looking down at the city. He smiled as he heard her gasp at the view.

"When I first came to London," Sherlock murmured into her ear, "I wanted to be able to know exactly where I was at all times. Everyone here acts as if they know it perfectly but they only know their own routes." His grip tightened on her as she turned her head into him. "So I snuck up here one night and started to map it all out on my head."

She shifted even closer and he closed his eyes. The hearing must have started by now and all he could do was hold her and hope.

"And when you're older," he said, his voice tight, "we'll come up when the cage is off so we can see clearly."

And beyond everything he wanted to believe that it would happen. That she would grow up in London with him and John, without the shadow of Moriarty.

"Can't we take it off now?" Ava begged, oblivious to his thoughts.

Sherlock shook his head, his chin brushing against her hair. "Not tonight," he said softly. "But I can show you the city," he said. "Would you like that?"

Ava nodded eagerly. "That's the river," she said, peering through the cage.

Well, they had to start somewhere…

* * *

Ava stared solemnly at the sights he pointed out to her: the Gherkin, Tower Bridge, the Tower of London and St Paul's Cathedral. He let himself be guided by her knowledge of the city, inwardly praising John for explaining things as he walked with Ava every day around the city.

When he sensed she was at her limit, he made her run around to where she thought the landmark would be, then lifted her up to see the view she had chosen. Ava seemed to think it was hilarious and begged for more.

It was almost a fitting memory to have of him and London if this was to be her last time in the city.

It had been almost two hours since he had left John and still no message. Starting to get frustrated, he let Ava draw on the menu he'd stolen from a café that afternoon while waiting for his contact.

He wanted to pace, but it felt like a fruitless exercise in the circular walkway. In the end, the setting sun and Ava's yawn made him reluctantly carry her back down the steps.

John needed to make up his mind.

Quickly.

* * *

Back at street level, Sherlock leaned against the wall, watching as Ava examined the engraving on the bottom of Monument with some curiosity and not a small amount of squinting and scowling.

_Need a decision. Now. Eat in or out? SH_

"What's it say?" Ava asked as he put the phone in his pocket.

Say? Oh, the inscription. Sherlock glanced at it.

_Haste is seen everywhere, London rises again, whether with greater speed or greater magnificence is doubtful, three short years complete that which was considered the work of an age._

How oddly…fitting, he thought, glancing back at her, not entirely sure she would understand it. "You don't want me to read all of that to you, surely?" he asked.

"The important bit?" Ava wheedled, winding around him catlike as she stared up at him beseechingly. "Or the bit that you're staring at."

He almost smiled as he read. "…three short years complete that which was considered the work of an age."

Ava frowned "What's that mean?"

Sherlock scooped her up again, holding onto her tight. The little girl that, under a year ago, he had hoped to get rid of so he could have John back all to himself. "That in a very short amount of time sometimes that which seemed so unlikely can happen very quickly," he explained softly.

He could tell from her face she had no idea what it meant, but she nodded in what he supposed was an attempt to act in a mature manner, even as she rested her head on his shoulder.

It was a battle to place a resigned and unhappy look on his face as he hailed a taxi.

_Stay in. be back soon. Xxx_

Sherlock almost collapsed into the taxi with relief.

* * *

The minute Sherlock heard the car outside he flew down the stairs and managed to meet John just as he closed the front door to the building.

John stared at him, and then leaned back against the door, nodding and a smile dancing across his face.

Sherlock sat down in relief.

"Hey." John stumbled forward and followed him down, wrapping his arms around him. "It's fine. We're fine."

John wasn't going to prison.

Relief couldn't even begin to describe what he was feeling as he clutched John without the faintest hint of coordination. Pulling him close, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and held him as tight as possible, pressing his lips to a spot just behind John's ear.

Free. He was free. They weren't going to take him away and lock him up where Sherlock couldn't touch him.

John could come onto crime scenes again.

Almost laughing he turned his nose into John's neck, sure that he would never be able to get enough of the wonderful man.

It suddenly wasn't enough and he started to tug at John's clothes. "Here," he whispered, desperate.

"Mrs Hudson-"

"Make enough noise and she'll work out that leaving her flat is a bad idea," Sherlock said, yanking at John's tie and tugging it off, over his head.

"This is stupid," John hissed, even as his hands reached for Sherlock's buttons.

"Dangerous," Sherlock agreed, throwing the suit jacket up the stairs.

John laughed into his mouth as they crashed backwards and knocked something off the side table.

"Boys!"

Sherlock, braced on his hands above John, glared at the wall and then lifted himself to look over his shoulder and at their landlady. "Ah, Mrs Hudson. Give us twenty minutes, would you?"

"You're in the hallway," she said in disbelief, though an amused twinkle was lurking in her eyes. "This is hardly decent."

"Decent," Sherlock tutted in disapproval. "We're celebrating."

"You got off?" she asked John, suddenly hopeful.

John sniggered and started to laugh.

* * *

"We should have a toast," Sherlock said, lying with his head off the bed.

"Mm," John agreed. His head was resting on Sherlock's stomach. "To sex or getting caught?"

"To getting off." Sherlock smiled and opened his eyes to look at the wall. "Three times in one night."

"Ah." John crawled up his body with a lazy look of lust. "I feel like there should be one more for luck," he added. "Or at least three of the same kind of getting off!"

Sherlock watched him with amusement. "I thought you were too old for things like that?" he teased, rolling them.

"I am." John grinned, rolling them again. "You can cope with it though. You have an amazing stamina," he added, ducking to Sherlock's neck.

Impossible man. Sherlock smiled and rolled them-

Straight off the bed and onto the floor with an almighty thud.

John couldn't seem to stop giggling under Sherlock, which was ridiculous for a grown man. But every time he seemed to have himself under control the giggles exploded out again in a contagious peal that had Sherlock huffing laughter into John's collarbone.

John let out an amused sigh and tucked an arm under his head. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, the odd chuckle still sounding out. "You twit," he said after a moment.

"Why is it my fault?"

"You rolled us last." John tilted his head to look at Sherlock. "You must have felt the bed was coming to an end."

"I was-"

"Distracted." John rolled his eyes. "Yes, I know." He looked up at the duvet and pillow spilling off the bed and shook his head, then started giggling again.

Sherlock could feel himself start to smile. How did John do this? They were lying on the floor, Sherlock propped on top of John after falling out of the bed together (a situation Sherlock was relatively sure was not meant to be endearing) and somehow John made it into something fun.

An adventure.

He was addicted to this man. Completely and utterly addicted.

"Marry me."

The giggles ended on a choked snort and John stared at Sherlock, the smile slowly fading. "I…what did you just say?"

What had he just said?

Marriage?

But no matter how much he searched his head there was no panic. No hiss at the sentimentality of the idea. Instead there was an unending calm, a delicious peace after spending the entirety of the previous day utterly certain that he had been about to lose John again.

"Marry me," he said, sounding far more serious this time.

John pulled his head back to look at him. "Wait…are you serious?"

Was he serious? The idea of life without John seemed so unbearable. The very notion that anyone else could take his place absurd.

All he wanted was John and Ava.

"I think I am," he said sitting back. John stayed where he was, as if he'd been dealt a blow to the head.

"You think?" John said slowly, staring up at nothing.

"It's all very sudden." Sherlock cleared his throat.

John started laughing.

"It isn't a joke-"

"No, I know." John scraped a hand over his face. "I know. I just…you _think_ you're serious." He shook his head. "Sherlock…we've had the timing discussion before."

"Timing?"

"Yes." John sat up and leaned forward with an oddly gentle smile on his face. "I…" He eyed Sherlock carefully. "It happens sometimes – you feel…overcome with emotion and words bubble up." John shifted close. "It's like a…an afterglow thing."

"An afterglow _thing,_" Sherlock said with distaste. _An afterglow thing?_ It was infuriatingly insulting.

Picking up on his brewing anger, John let out an annoyed breath. "You started this," he said, pulling away to find his trousers. "You proposed and then said you _thought _you were serious." He yanked his jeans out from under the bed and rolled away from Sherlock to stand.

"And you implied that I am overcome by hormones," Sherlock snapped.

"You are!" John paused in getting dressed, looking slightly bizarre with his jeans still open. "You don't want marriage! You don't want a wedding! You'd hate it. If for no other reason than Mycroft would probably turn up and you'd suspect him of trying to eat the whole cake or something equally childish."

"Of course I don't want a bloody wedding!" Sherlock huffed. "I want you."

John faltered at that and looked momentarily lost, then shook his head, refocusing on his jeans. "I hate to break it to you Sherlock, but to get married you have a wedding."

"No, you walk into a quiet court room, register and leave." Sherlock steadfastly refused to move, which prompted John to give up searching for a way to get his shirt out from under him and simply turn to the dresser to retrieve a clean one. "It's a civil partnership, John, not an event."

John yanked his t-shirt on and seemed to pause with his back to Sherlock. Slowly he turned back.

"Just…tell me one reason why you want to get married," John said. "And-" he added, when Sherlock opened his mouth, "it cannot be because you're afraid of what's going to happen to us in the next few weeks or because of what you thought would happen yesterday."

"I'm not afraid," Sherlock snapped.

"One reason Sherlock." John stepped forward. "Give me that one reason."

One reason? Sherlock refused to look away from the calm gaze but his mind was floundering. One reason…what was a good reason? A logical, clever reason that would have John nod and see that Sherlock was right.

John's shoulders dropped a little. "I'm…" He sat on the edge of the bed, while Sherlock remained on the floor. "I'm not saying no," he said carefully. "I'm saying I don't think you've thought about this. And I'm not sure, when this is all over, if you'll still feel the same way."

Sherlock frowned at him in confusion. "Meaning?"

John stared down at his hands. "I mean…you and I have only ever been together while Moriarty has been in the background, threatening us. We've not been in normal circumstances."

"Normal," Sherlock scoffed.

"Sherlock, you've shot at walls because you were bored. You'd hunt down cocaine dealers just to have something to do and then make up an elaborate game of hide and seek with the drugs and cigarettes. You haven't had a chance to be bored because of Moriarty. That's one issue we have never had to face."

It was the strangest thing; Sherlock wasn't exactly sure how it was possible to be both hurt and still feel desperately protective at the same time. "You think I would get bored of you and Ava?" The idea was ludicrous.

John fidgeted. "I don't know," he replied honestly. "And…I won't take that risk, Sherlock."

Air was stolen from his lungs and Sherlock stared at John blankly, words fading before they reached his lips.

A frustrated sigh echoed from John. "I…I'm not explaining this well," he said. "I just don't see what the rush is. We'll figure it out, but marriage is meant to be solid, it's meant to last and I worry that it would add to what will already be a difficult time for you."

"You think I would be bored knowing you were safe?"

The words weren't meant to come out the way they did. It wasn't meant to sound so utterly wounded.

"No." John struggled, looking confused. "I just think it will be an adjustment."

It was so, so…

Insulting!

Almost snarling at John, Sherlock stood up and let the bed covers fall about his feet as he stormed off to have a shower.

"Sherlock-"

"Go away." Sherlock yanked the door open. "Just go somewhere else." Then he slammed the door to the bedroom behind him with enough force that he half expected Mrs Hudson to shout up at him.

* * *

He sulked. He knew he was sulking but it was still so insulting to think that John-

Sherlock cut the thought off violently as he paced.

In the end he went back after an hour.

His sulking really had become quite pathetic since he'd become responsible.

* * *

He found John sitting in Ava's room, a habit they had both agreed they needed to stop. As if picking up on his thoughts, John sighed.

"I know," he said softly. "But…for a moment there I thought I'd have to…" He broke off and shook his head. "I didn't mean to upset you," he added softly.

The discomfort radiated from John, and Sherlock refused to look at him as he closed the door and watched Ava sleep.

"How can you think this would bore me?" he asked suddenly, infuriated all over again. "You and her; you both have a gift for making the ordinary extraordinary. I want…I want to show her things, I want to see her grow up and what she will be like. I want to have normal cases with you and see how often I can make you laugh at a crime scene. I want people to know just by looking what I have. What I have earned and kept safe and what is mine." He stared ahead, knowing that if he looked his vision would blur with traitorous tears. "I want my reward at the end of all of this. I want you."

"I'm not ready for that," John said in a voice that was barely audible. "And if you are honest with yourself, Sherlock, neither are you."

Surprised, Sherlock twisted his head to look at John. "What? Why?"

John just shook his head. "I…I can't seem to find the right words to explain it," he said with a shrug. "I just think that there is something that won't work when we get back to normal."

A flash of fear shivered through him. "But-"

"Oh God." John banged his head back against the wall. "I'm not saying we won't work it out, I'm saying there's still a lot you and I need to work through and I'd quite like to get married when we've sorted all of that out. Rather than just have it done on a spur of the moment, I'd like it to actually symbolise the fact that we worked hard and got 'us' on track and figured out a way to make it properly work for us."

Sherlock considered that as he looked down at John, his mind dissecting what John had just said. "That sounds perfectly reasonable," he said after a few minutes of thinking it through. Hesitantly he stepped over to John and slid down the wall to sit next to him.

"It does?" John sounded baffled at his sudden agreement, shifting a little to give him room.

Sherlock nodded slowly. "It should mean something. It should show something," he said simply. "I've seen enough idiots get married without good reason. I want…I want us to earn it," he decided with a nod.

They could be different, do it properly.

John's hand reached for his. "Yeah…" he said and then Sherlock heard the grin. "Well, I mean the last thing you want is for us to become some clichéd couple getting divorced or killing each other in a crime of passion."

"Don't be ridiculous, John; I'd hardly ever do something so mundane as get divorced."

John pressed an amused kiss to his shoulder. "But the crime of passion would be fine?"

"It is my area of expertise," Sherlock said, turning his head to press a kiss to John's hair.

Suddenly John snorted.

"What?" Sherlock pulled back to look at him.

But John shook his head. "I'm being childish," he said.

"That's hardly a surprise," Sherlock muttered. "What is it?"

"Well, neither boyfriends or girlfriends are your 'area'." John's voice wavered with amusement. "And-" he sniggered quietly, "you'd have to get a divorce to marry me."

A divorce? What on earth was he-

Suddenly Sherlock saw it. That first night with John, sitting in Angelo's, by candlelight on their first case together.

"_I consider myself married to my work."_

"Oh, grow up, John," Sherlock huffed, stranding up.

"Do you think it would be amicable?" John teased, following him out of the door. "I mean your work can be a right bitch sometimes."

"You are not funny."

"And which one of you would get Lestrade? Would you fight for custody?"

"Shut up."

"I assume you'd let work have Anderson though?"

"Shut up!"

* * *

Thanks for reading :)


	22. Chapter 21: July 10th to July 17th

**Chapter Twenty-One**

**10th July to 17th July**

* * *

**Synonyms**

**Thank you to swissmiss for betaing these chaters :)**

* * *

**10****th**** July**

There were no words to describe what it was like having John on a case again. Especially when he muttered something about some papers in his desk that helped Sherlock track down the disgruntled ex-army man who had been discharged over an issue with Hammonds.

Unsurprisingly, as they rooted around, they discovered that Lawrence Bagesh had asked a professional to help him get revenge.

The email to Jim was still on his phone. Stupid man.

On the other hand, the email was meant to be deleted. It was another link, another way forward.

"Brilliant," Sherlock murmured into John's mouth as he pressed him against the desk in Hammonds' study.

"I knew them, it was hardly-" John broke away and looked back at the desk he was almost sitting on. "Jesus, Sherlock, the man's dead. We don't need to defile his office too."

"I thought it would be fitting," Sherlock protested. "After all a 'pair of queers' solved his murder. I thought we should put the final nail in the coffin and-" He thrust against John, ducking his lips to his neck. "-finish off properly."

"Can we not get arrested for public indecency the second day after I had charges dropped against me? I'm enjoying the freedom at the moment."

Sherlock pressed a final kiss to his neck and pulled away. "Spoilsport," he complained.

* * *

An hour after John had left to relieve Mrs Hudson of Ava for the evening, Mycroft summoned Sherlock in his usual frustrating fashion.

"Why am I here?" Sherlock demanded.

"He's angry," Mycroft said, fingers tapping on the arm of his chair. It was rare that Sherlock was actually summoned to Mycroft's house but it was probably the safest place on earth to have a conversation; his brother was so paranoid that he probably swept for recording devices every twenty minutes.

"Angry?"

"James Moriarty," Mycroft snapped, "is furious. You were meant to be derailed by John's impending imprisonment and instead John is walking free and you two are behaving like newlyweds."

Sherlock flinched a little at the idea. "We are not getting married," he muttered.

"Hardly the point, Sherlock. For months now the pair of you have been carrying around this weight and he has enjoyed it. Suddenly all his plans have been scuppered and you are rubbing it in his face."

"Are you his mother today?" Sherlock asked sarcastically. "Do you wish me to apologise?"

"We are not finished yet," Mycroft said, slamming his hand down. "You and John seem to have decided that it is plain sailing from now on-"

"If we pulled on everything we have set up, it would devastate him-"

"But not kill him. We planned to destroy him and that is what we have to do. But do not give him an opening before we finish this off. Do not let him see how relieved you are, how certain you are. If he feels cornered, if he has even the slightest idea of how much he is about to lose, he will fight back like a trapped rat."

Mycroft was so dull at times. "What would you have me do?"

"Let him bug your flat."

No.

Sherlock started to laugh bitterly. "Absolutely not," he spat at Mycroft. "Ava is there-"

"The hall and the living room," Mycroft suggested. "Fight a few times and let it be heard. Let him believe that the front is what you put on outside and while Ava is around-"

Sherlock started to pace, furious. "John is not that good an actor," he said after a moment.

"Then you lose nothing," Mycroft said. "Moriarty is aware that John is your weakness. But you need to try; you need to be seen giving something up to him."

"We'll practise." Sherlock scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "Unless I feel it will work, we will not have it happen."

* * *

John lay on the bed, groaning. "Just one fucking week," he pleaded with his arm over his eyes.

"One week of us being relaxed may be one week too long for Moriarty," Sherlock muttered, hating the fact that Mycroft had a slight point more than anything else. "Besides, we've fought before."

"Over the fact that you don't know what a fridge is meant to be for," John snapped. "Not over…"

"Our fight the other day would beg to differ," Sherlock replied.

Slowly, John dropped the arm off of his face. "Seriously? You think it's a good idea to use that?"

"Certain aspects of it." Sherlock stood. "Come on, try."

"You're a wanker," John said, half-heartedly.

"John." Sherlock tugged at his arm to try and pull him off the bed. "Properly try."

The frustrated sound almost made Sherlock smile. "Try to think of any issues you have had with me. Think of it as clearing the air."

"You're over-protective," John said, sitting up, hair wild from where he'd been running his hands through it earlier.

"And exactly what about that bothers you?"

"That you get in more scrapes than I do."

Chuckling, Sherlock stepped back. "Now be less reasonable about it."

John clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. "If we're bugged you won't be able to psyche me up for every argument."

"I plan on letting the bugs work for two days before 'discovering' them," Sherlock dismissed. "If necessary I can purposefully wind you up."

"How?" John asked with some disbelief.

Amused, Sherlock pasted a deeply concerned look on his face and moved to sit behind John. "I can't let you get hurt again," he whispered, letting his tone drop. "I can't risk you out there. Stay at home and let me sort it all out for you-"

John pushed forward and away until he was off the bed. "That is beyond not you," he argued, folding his arms.

"I was proving the point quickly." Sherlock shrugged.

Letting out a snort, John rocked back on the balls of his feet and closed his eyes. "I'm not useless," he snapped suddenly. "Stop treating me as if I am."

Good. They would have to use that. "These are puzzles, John, not point and shoot. When I need you I will call."

That made John snap his eyes open. "Call? Like I'm your little dog?"

"Call via a mobile phone." Sherlock let his tone drop into being pedantic. "See, you can't even pick up on that."

For a second, he thought John might grin, but instead John pushed the grin away and clenched his jaw in a frustrated manner. "You don't see everything," John warned.

"I can keep him from hurting us," Sherlock pointed. "If you follow my plan. To the letter-"

"Don't push me out of this, Sherlock. I'm not fucking useless," John yelled suddenly, sounding furious. "I want him gone as much as you do-"

"I doubt that." Sherlock nodded at him.

He could see in John's eyes that he knew something that would have infuriated Sherlock had this argument been real.

Do it.

Say it.

With an intake of a shuddering breath, John steeled himself. "No, you're probably right," he spat. "How dull would life be without Jim Moriarty toying with us? I swear, Sherlock, there are days when it seems the only reason you don't catch him is because you don't want to."

Sherlock turned on his heel, shut their door and pressed against it. Then, with a grin, turned to John, who looked worried.

"We'll make an actor out of you yet," Sherlock decided, pleased. "And how much do you hold yourself back when we fight?"

Torn between amusement and bafflement, John shrugged. "Depends how pissed off I am with you."

"I almost wish we had the bug now," Sherlock preened, pulling at John's belt. "You did better than I did."

John laughed. "Only you," he muttered, "would be pleased by a fantastic fake argument."

"We can use it on cases," Sherlock breathed, even more turned on. "I always assumed you were a terrible liar but it's simply self-consciousness-"

"Shut up," John suggested. "And finish what you've started," he added with a nod at his half-opened trousers.

Sherlock studied him.

_Wait._

"Why would you hesitate to say something you didn't think was true?"

John froze and seemed to stay frozen. Slowly, Sherlock pulled his hand out and stepped back, tilting his head questioningly.

"Because…" John hesitated, "there was once a time when I thought that was the case."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Just before you…uh…jumped," John explained. "And for the first few months after you got back. Um…until I got shot, I suppose."

Sherlock took another step back. "Really?" he said in a dangerous tone.

"You weren't bored."

Bored? Sherlock considered that word. "How…charming of you," he sneered.

"We weren't together before you fell-"

"You were my friend," Sherlock hissed. "He strapped you to Semtex and threatened to blow you up. He aimed a sniper at you-"

"You drugged me for an experiment!" John yelped. "You have to admit, you have a pretty skewed idea of what's acceptable and fun sometimes-"

"I apologised for that," Sherlock snapped.

"No you didn't," John breathed. "You-" He cut himself off. "Oh this is ridiculous," he muttered, sitting down on the bed.

"Why?" Sherlock folded his arms. "You seem convinced I'm a heartless machine."

He had chosen those words for a reason. John flinched. Then there was a flicker of suspicion as Sherlock turned and slammed out the door.

He grabbed his coat and stormed down the stairs and out the front door.

* * *

**12****th**** July**

"John looks miserable," Mycroft said, handing him a coffee. "He and Ashcroft are working on the mercenary links."

Sherlock nodded. "I think he suspects."

"But he's keeping it up," Mycroft said. "Has he tried to talk to you?"

"He thinks about it," Sherlock said. "But he doesn't know when the bugs are being allowed in the flat."

"You'll be able to keep it up?"

Sherlock threw him a foul look. "Of course I will," he said dismissively.

"Allow them to remain as long as possible," Mycroft said. "And when-"

"Do not tell me how to conduct a relationship, Mycroft. You are hardly qualified."

* * *

**16****th**** July**

"Did you pick up milk?" John asked quietly when Sherlock walked in.

"Why? Wish to accuse me of poisoning it?"

John sighed and stirred his tea. He looked so deflated-

Sherlock glanced over at the living room, in the direction of the camera and voice recorder.

"Only you would feel justified in playing the victim over this," John muttered, his attempt half-hearted at best.

"You know you're in the wrong," Sherlock hissed, unyielding. "Apologise and we can move on."

John shook his head.

"Then don't disturb me. I need to sleep."

* * *

At night, he woke when John slipped into bed next to him.

"Sorry," John whispered.

Sherlock shook his head. "Tomorrow," he whispered back and then rolled out of bed and padded out.

As he closed the door he heard John sigh.

* * *

Playing the violin calmed his thoughts. It was such a strange situation to be in, but mostly he just missed John.

And Ava. When this was finished he would have to teach her the violin, finally.

As if he'd summoned her with his thoughts, he heard her creep down. Frustrated, he closed his eyes and stared out the window.

If it came to it, he would have to wake John up.

"You should be in bed," he said, placing the violin back in its case.

"Couldn't sleep," Ava said sounding firm and surprisingly alert. She wasn't lying then. "Did Daddy tell you what happened?"

Something had happened? He could only assume it hadn't been urgent…though he'd hardly given John a way of letting him know if it had. He simply shook his head as he did up the case.

"I got sent home from school for fighting."

He almost laughed at the idea. She was five years old, how bad could it have been? He paused in what he was doing, imagining that John had probably told her off already. Amused, he looked up at her and took in the little blue book that she was clutching to her chest.

"Did you win?" he asked.

She smiled.

Of course she had.

"Daddy and I had a chat about it," she said, nodding.

_Cameras._

He shook himself and examined her. She wasn't upset or injured or scared.

"Then you have come to tell me what exactly?" he asked, somewhat dismissively.

"Daddy didn't want to hear why," she complained. He shot her a doubtful look. No matter what John was going through he wouldn't ignore Ava. "He didn't want to know what happened at school because we were talking about home," she remedied, catching his look.

He opened his mouth to cut over her and then reconsidered. John would sugar coat it and disguise the issue. Him cutting over Ava would only make it look suspicious. "He explained it?"

Ava nodded. "You have to find a way to tell the bad man off," she said, as if it were just that simple.

"Is that what John said?" Sherlock asked, letting himself sound amused by the idea.

Ava nodded.

He considered her. Moriarty would believe that he and Ava were cordial and he knew that Sherlock liked a mystery. Weighing it up, he decided to let her proceed. "Tell me what happened then,"

Ava held out her book, looking suddenly nervous. "The teacher told me it was wrong. And Beth kept saying it was wrong..." She didn't let go when he reached out to take it. "And...I got scared that I was wrong," she confessed. "'Cause I don't think I was and I don't want to be wrong."

Understandable. And a chance to scold a teacher or be appalled at the education system. How could he resist? "I can appreciate that," he said reaching out to take the book. But she seemed oddly unwilling to let the book go.

"Be brave," he suggested. "You've already gotten into trouble for it. You may as well see it all the way through."

She studied him and then nodded and let go.

"Last page?" Sherlock asked flicking through rapidly. There was, after all, usually a limit on his interest.

Ava nodded. Sherlock looked at her over the turning pages with disapproval.

"Yes," she said her voice wobbling.

She was never this conscientious about her school work. His confusion only deepened when he scanned the title as being synonyms.

Why was that such an issue? Perhaps she was tired from not sleeping-

And then he saw it. There, next to Dad was a word, crossed out and then rewritten with thick black marker.

His name.

Ava thought his name was a synonym for the word Dad.

He forgot how to breathe.

He's always assumed that she viewed him as an add-on, as an extension because of his relationship with John. He'd never dreamed that she would think that, never allowed himself to hope-

"You rewrote it," he murmured, stunned. Someone had crossed it out and she had rewritten it, as thick and as obvious as she could.

"I didn't want her to cross it out again," came the sullen reply. Clearly she was still upset by it.

His mind caught up for a second. "Your teacher...she said it was wrong?"

Ava nodded miserably, looking a little deflated. "So did Beth," she added, shoulders slumping.

"You...that's the girl you had a fight with?" Sherlock clarified.

"I shoved her," Ava protested. "It wasn't my fault the chair tipped over. I have to apologise tomorrow."

Sherlock stared at her and then looked back down at the page again.

"I'll apologise," Ava said, jutting out her chin and took a deep, steeling breath, "if you say I have to."

No. There was absolutely no way she had to apologise. How dare they say she was wrong? How-

_Cameras._

Quickly he replayed the entire conversation in his head. Odd, yes, but not odd enough to be that interesting, surely.

But he had to find a way-

"You have a pen?" he asked.

She looked around as he made a show of shaking his head in scorn at the page and flicking through the book in distaste, and perhaps starting to show a little bit of boredom.

When she handed the pen to him he hesitated. Her reading was good enough that if he wrote the message to her-

And the teacher was one he trusted. Mrs Parker had known Ava and John long enough and he'd seen no hint of a duplicitous nature. Her only downfall was her predictability.

One more week. She could show the book to her teacher, the matter would be sorted and then he could steal the page back and hide it so that it was never used against them.

_Ava is correct. If you have an issue with it, speak to me or John, not my daughter._

"There," he said when he'd finished. "You should apologise to the girl if you shoved her. And only for the shove." He handed it back to her, letting his body language convey that he was bored of the matter now.

"And the teacher?" Ava asked.

"Not your problem," Sherlock said dismissively. "Now, bed."

Looking a bit hurt and confused, Ava turned and ran from the room.

And, as if he hadn't just received the most fantastic and important news he'd heard that year. Sherlock pulled out his phone, threw himself on the sofa and texted.

* * *

**17****th**** July**

He slipped a note in John's pocket as they left.

_Bookshelf. Look for that useless physiology book of yours that you kept because it was a present._

When he came back three hours later, John had smashed them all to bits and was sat with his head between his knees.

"Better?" Sherlock asked.

Half-heartedly, John threw a shard at Sherlock's chest. "Wanker," he muttered. "You utter wanker. You said two days."

"You were doing so well," Sherlock teased. "Well…until you apologised last night. Honestly, John, hardly the most attractive quality in the world."

"Why are you so…chipper?" John asked, peering up at him. "Have we experienced the same week?"

"Our daughter," Sherlock almost preened, "is a genius."

"Tell me you're not pleased about the fighting," John groaned. "God knows with the way she's being raised we don't need to encourage her any more than we already are."

"No." Sherlock shook his head. "Though she did win so-"

John glared up at him.

"She thinks my name is a synonym for Dad."

John froze and stared at him. Then, slowly, a delighted smile appeared. "Really?" he asked, grinning like a mad thing.

Sherlock nodded, feeling oddly proud as John pulled him down for a proper kiss. "Five more days," he whispered into John's ear. "Five more days."

John held him tight and nodded.


	23. Chapter 22: July 17th to 18th

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

**17th -18th July**

* * *

**17****th**** July**

"You gonna give me some sugar?" John demanded in an American accent as he walked into their bedroom. It was quite the reversal at the moment; John seemed busier than Sherlock, working as he was with Ashcroft.

He picked up the strangest phrases when working with soldiers again.

"I barely remember milk, let's not add sugar into it," Sherlock muttered without looking up from where his fingers were flying over the screen of his phone. But John, clearly triumphant about something, slid onto the bed and crawled up, ducking under Sherlock's phone to kiss at his stomach.

"What did you do?" Sherlock asked. He fired off the text and looked down at John undoing the buttons of Sherlock's shirt with just his teeth.

Talented man.

"Everything is set up to take down the weapons smuggling, the mercenary link and the dealings in the oil reserves." John made his way up Sherlock's chest, unbuttoning and kissing as he went. "Even managed to locate Setter's grandson."

That made Sherlock pay attention. "You have?"

"Mm." John seemed far more interested in Sherlock's skin than his report. "You have a way of contacting him?" he asked distractedly.

"Yes." Sherlock focused all his attention on John's mouth now as it kissed its way along his ribs. "Convoluted and time consuming, but there is a way."

John looked up. "Too time consuming and convoluted for this?"

Reluctantly, Sherlock nodded.

With a heavy sigh, John rested his forehead on Sherlock's chest. "Need a hand?" he asked. "I can have Mrs Hudson watch Ava."

"Yes," Sherlock whispered. "They like you more than me."

John laughed. "They like my aim better than you," he said, rolling off and to his feet.

"You seem much more…" Sherlock studied him. "Alive."

John threw a grin over his shoulder. "Could be dangerous," he said with a wink.

Delighted, Sherlock nodded and followed him up.

* * *

"When do you plan to make your move?" Setter asked. They were standing in a storage container that had last seen use years ago, before the local railway line had been decommissioned.

"Three days," Sherlock said, watching him closely as he studied the plans John had managed to get.

The man really was a wonder at times.

"Quicker," Setter demanded.

"No," Sherlock hissed. "We still have two more strings to pull at. The finances need to be utterly destroyed or he could simply start again-"

"This is my grandson. They could move him-"

"Why would they?" John asked quietly. "They don't know of any link between us-"

"It won't stay that way for long," Setter warned. "I've heard stirrings about Moriarty's plans for a child, leverage. What would you do if it were your child?" he demanded of John.

John sighed. "He's had him for months. We're doing you a favour by letting you know and we will tell you when we make a move. But you wouldn't risk your family for mine and we won't risk ours for yours."

It was begrudging, but Sherlock could see Setter calming a little, even as his thumb brushed over the picture and he nodded.

"We can't stop you from going after him early," Sherlock said, Setter's temptation clear from the way his gaze darted between the shots John had procured. "But you must know that waiting until the advantageous moment is-"

"I do not need strategy advice from you," Setter sneered.

Clearly, because he'd done so well up until now.

* * *

They stayed out at a hotel a little further along the river to mask what they had been doing. It was a travesty that they were both too exhausted to do more than curl up with each other and fall asleep.

"So close," John mumbled into the pillow.

Sherlock nodded.

_Soon._

* * *

**18****th**** July**

The first thing that annoyed him when he woke up was that they had overslept. John always set the alarm, but had apparently been too tired to even think about that. Frustrated, he poked John in the ribs.

"Alarm," he muttered in a scolding tone.

"Not your mother," John mumbled back. "Need coffee," he added, kicking back half-heartedly at Sherlock. "Go get some."

Sherlock lifted his head and stared at the pathetic little tray and kettle their room was equipped with, along with two dubious-looking mugs. "Are you sure? We may die prematurely."

John snorted. "After what you used to put in my mugs? If that didn't kill me then nothing will."

* * *

The coffee might not have killed them but it had been foul and the moment they were both showered and dressed, they left to hunt down a coffee shop.

"Starbucks?" John asked.

"I have standards," Sherlock declared snottily and swept into a little café filled with builders. "Here."

John seemed dubious about his choice but shut up quickly when he drank his tea. "Ignore what I said last week," he said with a grin. "Let's get married and you can keep me in tea like this forever."

Fondly, Sherlock sipped his coffee. "Perhaps you should test my tea-finding skills properly before making such a comment."

John shook his head and tucked into his breakfast with an ease to him that Sherlock would never tire of seeing. "Busy day?" he asked.

"I need to see Lestrade." They'd learned to keep things relatively vague. "And brave being bored to death by Mycroft. You?"

"Pretty light day." John shrugged. "Might have to go into the school later if they weren't satisfied with their morning conversation with madam."

Sherlock threw him a curious look. "I thought that was done with."

John pulled a face. "Brat's parents are making a big deal out of it." He rolled his eyes. "Mrs Hudson took her in early for a chat with the teacher.

"It will be fine," Sherlock dismissed, slightly awed by how much John was putting away. "It always helps when the teacher is biased in our favour."

John blinked at him. "How do you know that?"

What? "I have met her, John. And no, before you start, I did not delete the encounter."

"When?" John pulled a face.

Sherlock looked around, a little wary now. "Parents' evening," he said, hoping to put an end to the conversation. "You dragged me-" he started to say, trying to remind John that they might not be in a secure location.

"Oh." John waved his knife in a vulgar manner. "No. Mrs Parker had an accident last weekend. It's a supply in at the moment."

Sherlock froze.

He hadn't remembered to take the book. He'd meant to last night, but John's news…

_Plans for a child-_

His heart suddenly stopped.

"Supply?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light as John battled with a sausage.

"Mm, Ava doesn't like her as much as Mrs Parker. Probably because she had a soft spot for Ava while this teacher seems to have taken the other girl's side," John blathered on, oblivious. "Mrs…oh…" He closed his eyes. "What was her name…River or Bubbles or-"

Oh God no.

He couldn't breathe.

"Brook," he said, hardly recognising his own voice.

"Yeah that was-" John froze and then looked up. "No," he whispered.

_Richard Brook._

_James Moriarty._

_Surprise._

"I gave her the book back," Sherlock whispered. "I wrote in it. She'll have seen-"

John looked like he was about to be sick. All he kept doing was shaking his head. "No," he said, pulling out his phone. "No-"

"Do not call the school," Sherlock snapped, leaning over to grab at his arm.

"What do you mean don't call the school?" John snarled. "I-"

Sherlock lifted him out of the seat and dragged them both out and into the back. The fry cook there was reading a porn magazine and shot them a baffled look.

"Your yard," Sherlock ordered. "We are using it," he said, tossing a note at him as he continued to push John.

Outside, hidden by a small shelter used by smokers, Sherlock let John go and almost collapsed onto the tiny table, bracing his hands against the wood as he tried to control his breathing. "If you call and he has her, we lose an advantage," he said, trying to not shake at the idea.

"You think-" John let out a choked noise. "You think he already-"

"Call Mrs Hudson. Ask how the meeting went."

John was almost shaking. "I can't," he whispered. "I can't…what if he has her, what if-"

Sherlock shook his head. "We need to know. Please, John. I need to know. If he has her we need to-" God, he was struggling to think.

Eyes bright, John selected Mrs Hudson on the phone and raised a trembling hand to his ear.

"Hi," he said, sounding unsettled. "I was just wondering how it went-"

Sherlock stared. Nothing in the world was as important now as that phone call. "Mm," John said, his free hand clenching and opening with impatience. "Yeah. Oh…" He drew in a deep breath. "Right, I don't really need to know about the pie-" John suddenly broke off. "You left her there," he breathed, turning terrified eyes to Sherlock. "Was…had anyone else known about…no. Right." John hung up abruptly and stared at his phone. Then, before Sherlock could stop him, dialled again.

The bloody school receptionist picked up straight away and Sherlock almost snarled in frustration.

"Hi Mandy, it's John Watson, Ava's Dad. I can't remember, is it Thursday or Friday school finishes?" John asked, in a suddenly normal tone of voice. Surprised, Sherlock sat down in one of the chairs and blinked in amazement.

What the hell was he-

"Yeah." John's mouth went tight. "Thank you, I'm sure she will."

Then he violently pressed the end call button and threw the phone against the wall before slamming his fist against it too.

And again.

And again.

Sherlock darted forward, grabbing at him and covering the fist that was starting to bloody. From behind John he could feel the tremors that ran through his body.

"Shit," John hissed, "shit!" he yelled, wrestling free of Sherlock. He ran his hands through his hair and seemed to be struggling to breathe.

Sherlock staggered back and leaned against the wall, watching him helplessly.

How? How had they messed up this badly? They'd been so close.

"Mandy hopes Ava will be better soon," John said, hand over his eyes and voice thick with barely suppressed tears. "Mrs Hudson left her at school, with Mrs Brook, before school started."

Sherlock slumped in the chair, his mind whirring to a complete stop.

No.

Moriarty had Ava.

He had their daughter.

He knew.

"Call Setter," John suddenly snarled. "And you pull every single string, Sherlock. Right now. Do you hear me? Before he vanishes with her completely."

Sherlock dully pulled his phone out.

Moriarty wouldn't do this to vanish.

He'd do it to burn them all.

* * *

"We need to take the advantage," Sherlock said as he put the phone away

"Advantage?" John almost yelled. "What possible advantage do we have-" He broke off, shaking his head and turning for the door.

No.

Sherlock grabbed at him, yanking him back. "He doesn't know we know," Sherlock snapped, trying frantically to capture John's attention. "We need to use what we can, John. Even if it's just ruling out where he isn't. He won't expect us to be looking for him yet. Why would we? He thinks we assume she's still at school."

John glared at him, as if searching for something, then let out a frustrated noise and started to pace.

"We have until school lets out," Sherlock continued, watching him carefully as he talked quickly. "We can send Mrs Hudson to pick her up. Her reaction will be genuine. We can use it."

John shook his head. "You are asking me to walk outside and pretend that…" He let out a twisted laugh. "That everything's-" He threw up his hands and looked as if he were about to hit something again.

"For Ava," Sherlock said, grabbing at him. "For Ava. You have to."

John shook his head and leaned forward, shoulders shaking. "She's six years old," he whispered.

Sherlock grabbed at him, pulling him close. "She's too much like you to be scared," he murmured, trying to believe it.

John nodded slowly, and let out a breath. "You honestly think this is our best chance?" he asked, sounding as if he were at great pains to restrain himself.

"Yes," Sherlock said, absolute in that belief. If they panicked now they could lose…

Everything.

John looked up at the sky an then leaned in close. "What do we do when we leave here?" he asked, sounding as if he were trying to pull that endless reserve of calm around him that Sherlock had come to rely on.

"Mycroft. Lestrade. You need to talk to Ashcroft and get everything in place. We'll start to rule out where he isn't and make sure everything is ready." What else could they do?

His mind started to whir, focused completely on one thing.

They had to get Ava back.

"We need to stop home first," John said quietly.

Sherlock nodded.

He gave John a minute or two to steel himself for going back to where they could be seen.

"We'll get her back, John," he said looking up at the blue sky. "I promise."


	24. Chapter 23: July 18

Chapter Twenty Three:

18th July

Warning: This chapter coincides with Paved with Love's chapter: "On the Edge" which means warnings for child endangerment and violence.

* * *

Never before had time gone both so slowly and so fast.

On the one hand, every second that Ava was with Moriarty was one second too many. Sherlock ached to do something, anything. He could see John felt the same way; every so often as he sat in quiet discussion with Ashcroft, poring over the work they had done, John would shift so he could feel the gun he had picked up at the flat.

But, at three-thirty, Sherlock would have to call Moriarty, the bastard, and they still had no idea where he was. Their one saving grace was that, between himself, Mycroft and Lestrade (who had taken the longest lunch break known to man now) they had managed to rule out a number of places where Moriarty couldn't be.

Neither he nor John had eaten a thing since the cafe. It was almost a relief, somewhere in the back of Sherlock's head, that John had managed half of his English breakfast before they had realised what had happened.

What about Ava? Would Moriarty think to feed her lunch? Would he-

Sherlock cut that thought off quickly. The 'what-ifs' were not helping matters at all.

* * *

"It'll be all right," Lestrade said at quarter past two. They had just ruled out another location.

Sherlock ignored him.

"Sherlock-"

"She's coming back," he hissed. "That is all that matters."

"John's worried about you," Lestrade said quietly. "Sherlock, in every single plan I have heard you make today, not once have you mentioned what you plan on doing tomorrow."

"Perhaps I haven't thought that far ahead," Sherlock muttered, pulling out another map as a member of his homeless network texted through yet another negative location.

"You think it will be you or her," Lestrade breathed, trying to catch his hand.

"No." Sherlock looked up. "I know it."

* * *

Later, he saw Lestrade and John talking in a fierce, quiet discussion. John looked firm and desperate about something while Lestrade seemed torn.

He looked away when he saw John's mouth form his name, selfishly glad that Lestrade was taking his place in the conversation and taking the brunt of John's anger at his plans.

* * *

Mrs Hudson called them, horrified.

"She's not at school," she sobbed down the phone line. "They gave me a letter and it has some school work on it and-"

Sherlock hung up, not entirely trusting himself to reply.

* * *

"Missing something?" Moriarty asked when he answered the phone.

"What have you done?" Sherlock hissed, staring at the middle of the table. Mycroft and John sat watching him, and Ashcroft was tracing the call.

"I'm spending time with your daughter." Moriarty sounded delighted. "We've been having so much fun. Two of your brother's little pets have been keeping us entertained."

Sherlock shot Mycroft a look and held up two fingers. Mycroft nodded, looking unsurprised. The men had vanished hours ago.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh..." Moriarty sounded oddly coy. "I'll let you know soon. I'm playing another game at the moment. Your friend Raymond is going for his grandson."

"You knew?"

He hadn't, Sherlock thought. He could hear the seething, frustrated rage in Moriarty's voice, but it seemed to settle him a little to think that Sherlock assumed his knowledge was better than it was. "I was getting worried I'd completely miscalculated. You seemed so unmoved by the whole affair," Moriarty sing-songed with delight. "Or were you so wonderfully distracted by my little puzzle that you forgot to look at anything else?"

It was too vague; clearly, Sherlock was meant to make his own terror from it.

"I will destroy you," Sherlock breathed, glancing over at Ashcroft, whose mouth was set in a firm line.

The trace wasn't working.

"Now, that's just so predictable. You really are getting worse with age," Moriarty scolded and then hung up.

Sherlock stared at the device in his hand, then looked up. "Setter's made his move," he said to Mycroft. "Do it."

And with that Mycroft stood to make the one call that would completely dismantle nearly every single thing Moriarty had touched.

Ignoring it, ignoring the thing he had spent five years of his life working for, Sherlock turned back to the sweep of the city and sent out more messages to the homeless network.

Where were they?

* * *

It took a frustrating four and a half hours before they tracked down the hotel room that Moriarty had rented.

By the time they got there, Moriarty and Ava had vanished, Moriarty's entire empire was in tatters, Setter had found his grandson and Mycroft's men were dead in the elegant apartment.

"Do you think she saw this?" John asked, his voice trembling as he stared at the corpses.

Sherlock couldn't deal with what-ifs. Ignoring John, he started to search the room for clues.

* * *

The phone in his hand buzzed. It was that damned number. Part of Sherlock wanted to hurl the phone against the wall and watch it smash into a million pieces, illogically hoping that the same would happen to the caller.

He forced himself to answer before John heard the ring tone.

"Yes?" he snarled.

There was a long silence. Moriarty's gleeful tones were not echoing through the phone to him. Instead, there was just sharp breathing hitched with tiny little whimpers.

Sherlock's blood ran cold.

Next to him Mycroft was talking to his agents, and across the room Lestrade was snapping orders to the forensic techs hovering over the two bodies. John was snarling something at Anderson.

He couldn't hear.

"Shut up!" he snapped at them all.

Something in his expression must have registered with them all because silence fell instantly. Even Anderson seemed to understand the need for quiet, or perhaps he was just relieved to have lost John's attention.

The breathing quickened and he could hear a sob being swallowed back.

"Ava?" He couldn't do this, couldn't let his voice sound as desperate as he knew it did. Ava's entire protection had depended on Sherlock's negligent attitude towards her, and he was ripping it apart shred by shred, putting her in even more danger. The more certain Moriarty was of the treasure he held, the more unlikely it was this day would end well.

But God help him, he'd manage to sound less affected as soon as he heard her voice.

In the background Moriarty spoke, his voice far too soft to make the words out. But Sherlock could hear Ava's breath spike, her terror as clear as a scream.

"Ava, I need you to talk to me," he begged. "I need you to tell me if you're all right."

He couldn't look in John's direction.

It took an age, but finally he heard the flutter of a sob, and a small, fearful voice that sounded nothing like his Ava wavered out of the phone. "'m scared." The words trembled as she said them.

Jim Moriarty would die slowly.

"Where are you?" Mycroft caught his eye. A thousand words passed between them unspoken.

One of three places, and they could both guess which was the most likely.

"I don't know." The words were almost indistinguishable, run together in fear and sobs.

"Ava," he snapped a little harshly, hoping to get her to focus on just his voice, even as Moriarty's tone echoed again in the background. "I need to you to tell me what you can see."

Her breath hitched as if she had stopped herself from speaking. Sherlock closed his eyes. His clever, brave little girl had worked out that as long as Sherlock didn't turn up Moriarty wouldn't make his next move.

How many six-year-olds would work that out?

She was so much like John.

He needed to find a way to make her tell him what she could see.

Then she screamed.

His heart stopped at the sound and he was dimly aware that he shouted her name. Everyone in the room tensed. The only comfort he could take was that it hadn't been a pained sound, but rather a terrified one.

Terrified, scared, not in pain yet easily startled.

The roof.

"IOU," Ava sobbed a second later, so desperate to get the words out that they blended together. "He said IOU."

Christ almighty. His mind raced with a number of scenarios but the fact remained that Moriarty was no longer the only danger that faced Ava. She had to be exhausted and traumatised. He had to keep her from tumbling off the roof while he faced Moriarty.

"I want to go home," she begged into the phone.

He bit his lip and closed his eyes to the room. He wanted to plead with something, anything.

"Sherlock?" John's hand reached out to his free one.

He couldn't look, couldn't open his eyes. He'd promised, sworn that Ava wouldn't get caught up in this. Blazed a holy trail of retribution upon Moriarty for that night weeks ago.

"What is it?"

He couldn't fail them. Not both of them. And one would be lost without the other.

But they'd coped without Sherlock before.

An irritated sigh echoed in his ear and he bit down the snarled plea to put Ava back on the phone.

"Ten minutes, Sherlock. Bring whoever you like. It's a party! See you soon, honey."

* * *

The roof.

The place where he should have died the first time for refusing to join Moriarty. As selfish as it was, especially when they were so short for time, he needed just one thing, just five minutes before they left.

Sherlock caught John as everyone started to file out downstairs.

"We don't have time-" John started, eyes damp but furiously alive.

No, they didn't. But he needed time for this.

He had to have this, one more time.

Catching John's neck he dragged him forward, placing a fierce kiss to his mouth. A desperate attempt to burn John's kiss into his mind, to be able to remember every inch of the wonderful, brilliant man in front of him who had given him so much. His smell, his sounds, the feel of his warm body against his.

The last time they had sex they had laughed and fallen out of bed, giggling. The last time they had shared a bed, they had curled up together, warm, safe and happy.

He wanted more. Just one more day.

Always one more day.

Ava.

John kissed back as if he knew what was going on in Sherlock's head. Endless kiss after kiss as if John intended to pour every single ounce of himself into Sherlock.

It was unfair.

So unfair.

They'd spent most of the previous week in a fake argument. If Sherlock had known, if he had thought that might be their last week-

If, if, if.

Far too late for that now.

Far too late to do anything but ensure damage limitation. And, with that in mind, he stroked down John's sides, tracing musles and movement.

Then reached to tug the gun free of the back of John's jeans.

John pulled back instantly.

"Sherlock-"

"It might be the only chance," Sherlock whispered, nuzzling his cheek and breathing in the warm, fresh skin.

Just one more minute.

"I'll-"

Sherlock started to shake his head before the words left John's lips. "He won't let you up there," he said softly. And God help him, he couldn't decide whether to be grateful for that or not.

John froze, a suspicious look dancing across his face. "Sherlock-"

His heart thudded in his head as he cupped John's face with his spare hand. "I lo-"

"Don't you dare." John stumbled back in fury. "Don't even think about-" he said, fiercely desperate.

"He has her," Sherlock snarled. "Has her on that roof, John. You know what he wants."

John shook his head frantically. "There's a way, there has to be a way. You did it last time-" he started to plead.

Sherlock shook his head slowly and forced himself to watch John's breath stagger out of him as he almost collapsed against the wall and closed his eyes.

He couldn't look anymore when dampness appeared on John's cheek.

"We need to go." Sherlock swallowed, trying to regain control. "We have a limited amount of-"

"I'm sorry," John whispered. "I knew, I knew this would ruin you-"

Sherlock spun him off the wall in a rage, hands gripping his shoulders, shaking him. "Don't be an idiot," he hissed. "You and Ava…words can't describe…" He trailed off, uncomfortable at the idea of trying to explain how he had felt the past few months. "I would have chosen this a thousand times over," he promised. "And not once would I regret it."

John pressed against him and kissed him again. Wet and pleading, and Sherlock responded. The kiss far less careful this time, nothing but pure desperation.

A goodbye.

How was he meant to say goodbye again? Properly this time. How was he meant to leave knowing this would be their last kiss, their last touch-

Heartbroken, he wrenched himself away and stumbled out the door, using every single ounce of will power that he had.

He didn't look back.

He wouldn't be able to do it if he looked back.

* * *

As they left the building, Sherlock could feel John behind him, hear every move he made on the way down. At the front of the hotel, Lestrade and Mycroft's cars were waiting for them.

Sherlock hesitated.

"Go," John said behind him. "You and Mycroft…you should plan. Work out the best way," he let out a tight breath.

He was scared, worried, nervous.

Sherlock hated it.

"John-" he said, turning.

"Go," John repeated. "It…it's fine," he said with a weak smile. "It's all fine," he added, eyes wet.

Sherlock reached for him and pressed a fleeting kiss to his mouth and pulled away before he could think or hope. Instead he turned with a quick nod and headed for Mycroft's car.

"I have men in place-" Mycroft said as Sherlock opened the car door and slid in.

Sherlock nodded, shutting them in the car firmly. "He'll know that," he said as the car pulled away from the pavement.

There was no argument about that. They both knew that any agents stationed around the area would be expected.

"You told John?" Mycroft asked, breaking the silence.

Sherlock nodded, staring out of the window.

"You'll ensure the updated will is used?" he asked distractedly.

"Do not go into this thinking-"

"What?" Sherlock asked, almost surprised at the lack of emotion in his voice. "That he won't keep her on the edge? That he won't use her as a shield? That he won't make me play some unwinnable game in the hope of getting her to safety?"

Mycroft was silent.

"I'll see to it." He hesitated, a first. "And to them both."

Sherlock almost looked over at his brother but managed to keep his eyes fixed on the seat opposite. "I would have…" Catching himself, he turned back to the window.

"Sherlock?"

It was on the tip of his tongue. To say how much he wanted to see whether grey hair would suit John, whether John would have come on more cases when Ava got old enough. What Ava would look like and how they would deal with the first idiot that walked through their door mistakenly thinking he was good enough for her. What Ava would do when she was older, and whether John and Ava would still wrinkle their noses in the exact same way. Whether-

He could go on for a lifetime.

So he just shook his head and clamped his jaw shut.

"Would you object if I ran a background check on every one of her future boyfriends?" Mycroft asked quietly.

Sherlock shook his head. "I'd be desperately disappointed if you didn't. It's about your only use."

* * *

When they arrived at Bart's there were already police lines sectioning the building off from the small crowd of spectators. Sherlock stared at them, at the way they pointed and glanced over at Mycroft.

With a nod, Mycroft got out of the car first. His sharply indrawn breath told Sherlock exactly what to expect, and yet the sight was still as brutal as a bullet to the stomach.

Ava stood on the edge with Jim Moriarty in front of her, using her as protection from those below and the void behind her.

Behind him, he heard more doors open as Lestrade and John got out.

"Christ," John breathed in horror.

The text alert went off on his phone.

_Just you my dear._

Sherlock lifted his eyes to meet John's bright gaze.

He should say something. Anything. Something clever and meaningful and private. But the last time they'd been here and he'd done that it had been a sham, a lie, and the knowledge of that clouded everything he wanted to say.

And all the things he had no words for.

Nothing came out, but all the same, John nodded.

Goodbye.

* * *

The walk up to the roof was torturously slow. If for no other reason than as he walked up he could read Ava's journey up the stairs like a book.

Detach.

Impossible.

He paused at the top, pushing all thoughts of John away.

Ava. He had to get Ava to John.

Nothing else mattered now.

And with that thought, he opened the door to the roof.

* * *

Moriarty blocked his view of Ava. A shot would knock him forward, and Sherlock wouldn't have a chance at grabbing her before she went over.

But when he spotted blood on the rough, uneven roof surface it took all his effort not to pull the gun out and start carving holes out of the bastard.

Behind Sherlock, the door swung shut.

"It's just one big, never-ending circle," Moriarty said thoughtfully. "Over and over and over again."

Slowly he turned and let Sherlock see Ava.

Death would be too good for him.

Bright blue eyes, wet with tears, stared at him desperately, devoid of their usual spark. She was shivering from the wind and her legs were scraped and torn from where Moriarty had dragged her across to the ledge. She looked so tired and so tiny.

And so very scared of the gun that stroked her cheek, pushing damp strands of hair away from her face.

Moriarty smiled.

There was a bruise on her wrist from where he'd gripped her too tightly, red marks from where he'd pulled her up the stairs. So many stairs for such a little girl.

"You know I won't let you leave here alive," Sherlock said, his voice even as his feet moved forward.

"I had thought a similar thing about you last time we stood here," Moriarty smirked. "Look how that turned out!"

"What's the game?" he forced himself to ask, wanting to cut through Moriarty's usual histrionic display.

"No game." Moriarty smiled at him triumphantly, then peered behind Ava at the drop below. "How fast can you move?" he taunted.

No. It couldn't…Moriarty would want him to beg. "You're lying," Sherlock said, taking a step forward.

He had to be.

Moriarty watched him, looking amused. "You think so?"

"This is your final move." Sherlock wasn't entirely sure if he was trying to convince Moriarty or himself now. "You're not going to waste it."

Moriarty seemed to weigh that up as he stroked Ava's cheek with the gun. Sherlock watched, heart hammering wildly at the sight of her soft little cheek touched by the vicious metal.

"Do you think he'd forgive you?" Moriarty asked thoughtfully. "Your pet? Do you think he'd forgive you if he had to watch another loved one bleeding on the pavement below?"

John.

God no, he'd never survive it. Not Ava. Moriarty laughed in delight at whatever expression was on his face and shook his head mockingly.

If only he would aim that gun somewhere else, relax his grip on Ava-

But she looked far too tired to run anywhere.

"I don't know," Moriarty sighed. "I'm standing on the edge, she's standing on the edge, and you're all the way over there." Moriarty pouted at him. "You've done this before, Sherlock. Could you save us? If I leaned back just a bit-" He demonstrated with a wicked smile.

His heart shuddered as Ava was tilted.

"Stop." Astoundingly, he heard himself beg. Moriarty's eyes displayed utter joy at the sound of his voice. Sherlock was so close now that he could have reached out a hand and touched Ava's hand, but he didn't dare while the gun was aimed at her. "You know I can't," he admitted.

"Really? Because you've known that I had her for six hours. You've had your big brother, your pet, your pathetic little police squad running around all day. Do you honestly expect me to believe that you haven't thought this through? That you didn't see this coming?"

He hadn't. He hadn't thought Moriarty would focus so much on Ava.

"_If he has even the slightest idea of how much he is about to lose, he will fight back like a trapped rat."_

He should have listened.

"I miscalculated," Sherlock admitted. "I didn't think you were stupid enough to so much as glance in her direction after last time. Let alone…" He trailed off, his eyes lingering on Ava for a long moment.

He'd completely failed her.

He'd never told her that he loved her. That he thought of her as his.

He'd let her feel worried about it, let her be unsure.

He hadn't seen her win Sports Day and now he never would.

"I was getting bored," Moriarty said sadly. "I knew all I needed to do was find your trigger …" Moriarty tightened his grip on Ava. Sherlock clenched his hands uselessly as Moriarty moved back and slightly to the side. "I thought it would be shooting Watson. But that nearly pulled you out of the game completely. Did you get scared, Sherlock? Did the self-proclaimed sociopath feel fear?"

"Let her go and I will stand up there with you," Sherlock said tonelessly. He'd answer any question, jump through any hoop.

He shook himself. He was letting Moriarty see far too much of how far he was willing to go to-

The look Moriarty shot him was both poisonous and delighted. He clamped a hand over Ava's mouth and twisted suddenly out to the sky.

Sherlock felt his heart drop. Ava was so close to the edge, her entire balance in Moriarty's hands. Automatically, desperate to do something, he reached back for the gun.

"Pay attention," Moriarty snapped and then turned to eye him up, taking in the posture.

_You've rather played your hand there._

The taunt, said years ago, echoed back to Sherlock and he could almost feel the same frustration that showed on John's face at the-

John.

No. he couldn't think about him.

"And get rid of it," Moriarty added with a smile.

Sherlock looked down as he pulled the gun out.

John's gun.

When he looked up again, Moriarty had started to aim his gun at Ava's head, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock.

Something sank within him.

He couldn't get them out of this. He couldn't play or antagonise because Moriarty held something that Sherlock was never going to be willing to risk in order to win.

But…he had to get Ava to safety.

Moriarty let loose a rather dramatic sigh as his hand curled around the trigger.

Aware that he might be throwing away his best chance of saving Ava, Sherlock obediently tossed the gun back towards the roof door, too far away to easily reach.

Moriarty gestured with his gun at a spot a few steps to the side. Sherlock took three steps in that direction, away from them both, and lifted his hands in surrender.

Moriarty swung back around, bringing Ava, blessedly, back on much firmer ground. Her cheeks were streaked with terrified tears.

She was starting to go into shock. He could see it in her face.

He'd done this before, played an armed Moriarty with nothing more than words while someone had a gun pointed at John.

He could do it now.

He just had to wait for the right opportunity.

"Did you feel fear?" Moriarty repeated.

"Yes."

"More or less than right now?"

_Walking into the flat, John bleeding, John pale, his heart stopping-_

_Ava in front of him, a gun at her head as she stared, panicked._

He'd been helpless both times, forced to watch and hope and wait while the two people he loved more than anything were in danger.

Moriarty would accept nothing less than the truth.

"Similar," Sherlock answered eventually.

Moriarty huffed but didn't swing Ava back round. "More or less, Sherlock, it can't be similar," he demanded.

"It is possible to…" Sherlock trailed off suddenly.

How was he meant to do this? The more he humoured Moriarty the more vulnerable he allowed himself to be.

"To…?" Moriarty prompted. He sat down on the ledge and pulled Ava into his lap, leaning his head on hers with the gun back in its previous position against her cheek. Sherlock nearly growled at the sight of Moriarty holding Ava in a grotesque parody of comfort.

He wanted his daughter in his arms.

Now.

Moriarty waited, and then started to rock ever so slightly.

"To love more than one person," Sherlock admitted.

As if Sherlock had told a shameful secret, Moriarty sighed in disappointment and turned himself a little so he was sideways on the ledge and Ava was facing Sherlock. She was shivering, her eyes a little glassy now.

"You really are so terribly disappointing," Moriarty said eventually, sounding genuinely sad. "I had half suspected that all this" - he waved the gun absently - "was nothing more than you trying to get a half-decent shag out of your pet."

If he had kept his nerve, if he had called the bluff-

He had no way of knowing if Moriarty would have just thrown Ava off the edge, had he managed to fool Moriarty. The man knew it was the end.

Moriarty stood again and set Ava down, pointing the gun at the little girl as he backed away a little.

"Jim says stand next to her." Moriarty grinned like a man suddenly freed.

No.

"Or?" Sherlock watched him closely. He needed an opening, an opportunity, something to-

Moriarty fired the gun. The bullet flew past Ava's feet and she jumped, almost losing her balance. She dropped to the ledge. The sight of that made Sherlock dash forward.

Sherlock could reach her. If he stretched his arms he would be able to touch her-

"Up," Moriarty ordered her.

She was shaking. Trembling violently. Sherlock felt his vision blur at the sight.

She was going to fall.

He reached out and grabbed her hand. She clenched back, tightly, as if to squeeze into his fingers and hide.

He tightened his grip back in response.

_I'm here._

"She still needs to get up," Moriarty said, sounding dreadfully bored.

She was terrified, a deer petrified in the headlights.

"She's a child," Sherlock started to plead.

"Don't be so DULL!" Moriarty screamed the last word. Sherlock felt Ava jump and tightened his grip even more.

Moriarty still held the gun.

Carefully, Sherlock stepped back and up to the ledge, keeping his gaze on Moriarty. As he stepped up, Ava shifted, obviously desperate to keep hold of him, no matter what it required.

And then they were both standing with their backs to the void, at the mercy of both a madman with a gun and a fierce wind.

"I could make you choose," Moriarty said thoughtfully. "Dead up here or dead down there?"

"Obvious," Sherlock said, terrified that he would. Ava seemed to stir a little and turned as if to press in to him.

"Don't move." Moriarty aimed the gun very pointedly at her. Obediently, she froze again.

_It's okay,_ he wanted to say. _I won't let anyth__ing happen to you._

It was a foolish promise. But one he so desperately wanted to believe was true. Stroking the back of her hand was the only comfort he could give her.

Moriarty, watching them closely, stepped forward.

"Turn around."

If he looked down-

John.

Oh God. What was John seeing?

But the gun was pointed at them and Moriarty was waiting.

Slowly, Sherlock turned so he was facing the street. He bit back a flinch as Moriarty wrapped his arm around him and rooted inside his pockets. "Oh, good old doctor Watson, staying put like a good little dog," Moriarty said with a smile as he pulled out Sherlock's phone. "What would you like me to text him?" Moriarty asked nonchalantly. "Anything?"

If she were alert he would have had her run now and thrown both himself and Moriarty off the roof without hesitation. But she was tugging so hard on his arm, wavering in the wind, that he honestly had no idea if she would manage it..

"No goodbye? No note? No apology?" Moriarty sounded gleeful . "Funny, isn't it, that you've deleted everything that was on here."

Of course he had. He always did these days. He adjusted his grip as Ava shivered.

She felt so cold.

"You have a plan-"

God, did he wish he did.

"What possible plan could I have?" Sherlock snapped suddenly. "This isn't the same as last time-" He cut himself off as the truth of the statement hit him.

This wasn't the same as last time.

"I know," Moriarty soothed. "We're both about to lose everything," he whispered in Sherlock's ear.

There had to be something. Anything.

"I'll beg," Sherlock said suddenly. "If that's what you want. I'll jump, I'll allow you to walk away."

Anything.

"I'm not walking away from this," Moriarty laughed. "You're being insulting," he sing-songed.

Sherlock closed his eyes and the wind stole the tear that slipped out.

John.

God almighty, what was John about to see? Because if their situations were reversed, Sherlock knew he would follow John and Ava the second he could.

He was about to lose everything.

The wonderful, glorious man that made his life and the beautiful fascinating girl that lit up the sky for him.

He looked down at her and saw her staring up at him.

On her other side Jim stepped up.

Hope suddenly bloomed and Sherlock tightened his grip.

A clean shot. If Mycroft's men were still out there…

He completely missed what Moriarty said as he glanced at the buildings opposite.

"We'll go together," Sherlock said, trying to stall. "You and I."

"The last thing I want you to see is his face as you do it." Moriarty didn't seem to be listening. "I want you to see him lose everything."

Shoot him.

Now.

Nothing but the wind howled around them.

Nothing.

_Please._

"You start us off, Sherlock," Moriarty suggested. "Whenever you're ready. Or shall we just wait for her to collapse of exhaustion? Your move."

Still nothing.

It wasn't going to happen.

"Whatever I do you're not going to let go," he said dully.

But he could let go.

Moriarty wasn't going to let Ava live. But that meant Sherlock could walk away.

Logically…logically there was nothing to be gained from staying with Ava.

"The chances are tiny," Sherlock said absently, thinking of how likely it was to make a difference, how unlikely it was that he could save her now. "So slim as to be negligible."

"Then let go."

Sherlock stared down at his hand intertwined with Ava's.

Would he have done it under a year ago when he first met her? This wasn't about saving her life now, this was about how she was going to…going to…

Going to die.

For the sake of a minute of comfort, could he let go and let her go?

No.

It wasn't a shouted thought, or a desperate thought, but a deep, still one that was as matter of fact as the voice that told him what colour grass was or how stupid Anderson was.

It was a simple truth.

Even if it killed him, even if it served no real purpose and gained him nothing. Even if John had to watch two people he loved fall off the building instead of one.

He was never letting go.

And John could know that they had gone together, that Sherlock had held her hand until the last possible moment.

And she would know that he would never walk away from her.

So he shifted his grip and then tightened it.

Moriarty laughed. "Look how far you've gone," he breathed. "You're lost to me now."

Yes.

Sherlock took a deep breath and squeezed her hand as he ordered his thoughts.

He should tell her he loved her. He should make it into a game. And if Moriarty pulled the trigger because of it, then at least she wouldn't know a thing about it because she'd be looking at-

The gun fired.

But it was Moriarty that reacted. His head whipped back, blood sprayed. The momentum of the bullet threw him backwards, his body crumpling down, but the balance was off enough that his feet slid off the roof-

Ava was yanked down with him. Away from Sherlock.

All in the space of a heartbeat.

He hadn't been prepared-

The world was a rush and a blur as he tried to tighten his grip and felt himself pulled down by Ava's and Moriarty's combined body weight. He stepped back as he went, tripped a little and thudded to the edge of the roof with such force that he felt something give slightly in his chest. The jolt crashed through them all and then the weight was much easier to bear as Moriarty's dead grip fell from Ava's hand.

Then she was there, alone in the sky, his hand the only thing keeping her from following the path that Moriarty had taken.

Below her, far below her, he could see the blood on the pavement.

He hadn't been prepared-

She wriggled, scared, and he felt her slip just a little more.

And there was nothing, nothing that would help them if she slipped properly.

"Stop moving," Sherlock snapped in desperation. "You need to stay utterly still," he pleaded.

But the wind was too strong and she was too frightened, he too surprised and the pain in his ribs made movement awkward.

She was going to fall from his grip.

Alone.

"No," he whispered. "Please no."

_Please God, no._

Then someone reached over and caught her other hand. Sherlock could barely process it as he felt her start to move towards him rather than away and, desperate, he started to pull as well.

Then she was at the edge of the ledge and he practically clawed her into his lap and wrapped himself around her.

She was safe.

Alive.

Safe.

He could barely breathe. Trembling, he pulled her as close to himself as possible and rocked them slowly.

He could hold her. Keep her warm, feel her breathe. He could cuddle her and keep her safe.

_Thank you._

Dimly, he became aware of Mycroft standing in front of him.

Oh.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to her, pressing frantic kisses to her hair. "I'm so, so sorry." He couldn't stop himself, the images of the day crashing through his mind without permission.

Mycroft reached for them both, wrapping them in a hug that made a start at grounding Sherlock again.

He couldn't think about Mycroft.

His daughter was safe. She was alive.

He was alive.

He turned his head to push it against Mycroft's shoulder, trying to calm the hysterics that were bubbling inside himself. A careful hand pressed into his hair, soothing him slightly.

"She's alive," Mycroft whispered. "He's dead. It's done."

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at the sky.

It was done.

He couldn't give a flying fuck. As long as Ava was all right.

"She's cold," he whispered. "My coat-"

Mycroft made a disapproving sound and moved away briefly. When he returned, he maneuvered his jacket around Ava, never asking Sherlock to let go.

"I thought-" Sherlock buried his face in her shoulder and in Mycroft's jacket. "I thought-"

"I know. So did I," Mycroft said thickly.

"Is she all right?"

Mycroft shot him an odd look and ducked to see her face. "She's in shock," he said. "But physically she's fine."

"Her knees," Sherlock protested. "He dragged her along-"

Mycroft's lips firmed in disapproval and he shook his head, gazing at the edge. Then he sighed softly. "All things considered, Sherlock, a scraped knee isn't the worst way today could have gone."

True.

Suddenly, Sherlock heard himself laugh wildly. "He's gone," he whispered, staring at Mycroft.

"Yes."

They were free.

They were finally free.


	25. Chapter 24: July 18th

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

**July 18th**

* * *

**Two things:**

** Firstly, swissmiss is amazing for all her work with this and for helping me to rework this as it was written almost a year ago and I couldn't distangle it - very strange working with this as my writing has changed so much in a year.**

**Secondly, we are back to weekly updates after this on Mondays (or at least that's the intention!) But I'm so eager to get this one out because while the last chapter was a collapse of relief, this is the one I've had to hold back for ages ;-)**

* * *

**J****uly 18****th**

Everything in John was focused on getting into the car. Just getting in without the Holmes brothers working everything out.

Greg glanced at him as they pulled out. "You okay?"

John nodded. "Yeah. He took the gun you leant me."

Greg changed gears almost violently. "You said he would," he said, flashing a look in the mirror as he pulled out to follow Mycroft's sleek car.

With a heavy sigh, John nodded. "Idiot," he muttered. "He's crap with guns."

Greg snorted. "We weren't all trained in the army," he said, changing lanes.

John drummed his fingers on the door frame and shook his head. "He's the one charging off like it's the fucking Alamo." He turned back to Greg and studied him. "You bring it?"

Greg shifted, his discomfort at the situation clear. "Last resort, John. You promised."

John looked out the window and said nothing.

* * *

_Harsh, stripping sunlight beat down upon them as they made their way to the training area of the camp._

"_I saw you, the other day," Moran said conversationally as they walked. "You got a damned good eye, kid."_

_There was a part of John that bristled at the idea of being called 'kid', but he swallowed it back. "Yeah?" he asked, pleased at the idea that Moran, Moran of all people, had noticed._

"_You need a bit of work," Moran added, stopping them at the edge of the range. "You already practiced here?"_

_John nodded. "Eighty percent hit rate," he said with some pride._

_Moran winced. "Come and see me when it's a hundred."_

* * *

They all pulled up, the squad cars in front, Mycroft's people behind, in a cacophony of sirens and tires screeching. A few stray passers-by had caught a glimpse of something on the roof and were pointing from beyond the police lines.

Greg stopped the car and rested his hands on the steering wheel. John listened to the ticking of the engine as it wound to a halt.

"Are you sure?" Greg asked, his head angling to look out through the windscreen.

In response, John pushed the door open and got out in one swift move. Before he'd even set foot on the pavement, he felt his heart drop through his stomach at the sight of his precious little girl standing on the edge of the roof.

* * *

_Blood spewed from gasping lips as John fumbled with the mess of bone and tissue. It was a lost cause, hopeless from the moment the bomb went off, but there was something far too cold and callous about just waiting and watching a man die without trying._

"_Hurts-" Then there was a shot._

_Stunned, John looked up at Moran, who frowned sadly at the body._

"_Nothing to be done." Moran tucked the gun away. "You knew that better than I did."_

_John stared back down at the blank face that was no longer twisted in pain._

"_I…" He nodded._

"_You'll learn," Moran said softly._

* * *

Sherlock was staring at his phone.

John could feel his breathing throbbing like war drums going off in his throat. Sherlock looked up and over at him.

What the hell was there to say that they didn't already know?

John nodded at him and Sherlock relaxed fractionally, then turned and walked into Bart's.

Mycroft stood next to John. "I will do my best," he said after a moment and nodded to someone. "Ashcroft will oversee things out here." He slipped a device into his ear with a nod at John's former comms man and then walked towards the building with several others.

"Jesus, John." Ashcroft glanced at him and then up at Ava. "I don't even know what to say-"

"Then don't," John said evenly, staring up at his daughter's gently swaying form.

It was past her bedtime.

He couldn't think about that now.

* * *

_Moran's face was screwed up as he watched the Red Cross workers filter through the village._

"_Waste of time," he sneered._

_John dragged his gaze from the children he'd been watching, grinning as a team scored a goal. "What?"_

"_You can't win a war and heal a country at the same time." Moran kicked at a stone. "Fucking press. They'll tear us apart without a moment's hesitation when it suits them." He glared at the journalist who was snapping photographs of the peaceful scene._

"_This isn't the dark ages, sir. We can't just go around conquering left, right and centre. Though I did notice there was a well on the way in that we could maybe annex," John replied._

_Moran didn't react to the attempt at lightening the tone. "That's our problem, Watson. We don't prioritise."_

* * *

"Fuck," Greg hissed.

John dragged his gaze away from the edge of the roof, where Moriarty was no longer visible, and turned to see what was bothering Greg.

The press.

A shiver went through him. He could feel Greg's eyes on him, as if to gauge what to do next. Slowly, John did a sweep of the assembled cameras and reporters.

And looked straight into Kitty Reilly's determined eyes.

Drawing a deep breath, John turned to Greg's car and opened the passenger side door.

Greg closed it with a fierce hand.

"I said 'last resort'," Greg hissed.

"What more do you need to make this the 'last resort'?" John snapped.

Greg hesitated, then glanced up at the roof. "Mycroft-"

John pulled the door open again and this time Greg let him do it. He reached in and fumbled with the glove compartment.

"John, I can't do anything if they're here," he said in a heated whisper. "They've got fucking film crews-"

"And?" John fixed him with a look.

Greg stared, looking torn as John drew out the gun.

"You knew," John said, putting it in his jeans carefully. "You knew when I asked you to take it that this would happen. That's my family up there. You think I give a shit about anything else?"

"We didn't factor on the press," Greg said in an effort to talk him out of it. "Put the gun away. We still have other options-"

"You know the bastards think of this as a game of chess. They call me the King?" John asked, feeling an odd sense of calm descend upon him. "Do you know why?" he asked, fixing Greg with a firm look.

"King ends the game," Greg muttered.

John smirked. "For incredibly stupid men, they do miss the obvious sometimes." He glanced over Greg's shoulder. "We need an excuse for being in here. They can't know you brought me the gun."

"You think I give a damn about-"

"I think we don't need to make a bad situation worse."

Greg considered that and then tossed his own onto the seat.

"Thought I'd remove temptation," he said, sounding unhappy about it. "Get it out of your reach."

John nodded and stepped away from the car. "You know Kitty Reilly's here," he said, wanting to give Greg a bit of a heads-up.

Greg sighed behind him. "I saw. Mycroft will do something," he said, trying to sound hopeful.

Across from them Ashcroft was staring up at Ava with worry as he talked into a microphone.

* * *

_John nervously made his way over to Moran's desk._

"_Sir?" He saluted._

"_Watson." Moran looked up from the reports he'd been studying. "What is it?"_

"_You told me to find you when I got to 100% on the range."_

_Moran smiled. "How many times?"_

"_Last two weeks, sir."_

"_Well then. Oh-seven-hundred tomorrow."_

"_Sir."_

* * *

"Fuck," Ashcroft hissed, looking suddenly at the building behind them.

Greg turned. "What?"

Ashcroft shot a panicked look over at John.

"Mycroft's plans." John sighed.

"I'm sorry," Ashcroft breathed in horror.

John let out a breath. "I need you to stand in front of me."

Ashcroft moved to obey and then went to say something into the headset.

"Turn it off," John ordered. "Greg, I need you to stand on my right."

"John-"

"If you don't, the reaction of the press will alert him," John said, feeling oddly numb as he watched Sherlock and Ava stand side by side on the edge of the roof.

Greg moved.

"Act as if you're trying to calm me down."

"No fucking acting required," Greg snapped.

"Sir, what-" Ashcroft's voice trailed off as John brought his gun out from underneath his jacket, into the midst of the triangle they were forming, hidden from view by their bodies.

"John..." Greg stared up at Ava and Sherlock. Moriarty's shadow loomed close to them. Too close. "There's no fucking way you'll make that shot. Put it away."

Ashcroft flickered his eyes to John's hand.

"Keep him out of this as much as you can while still giving me cover." John clicked the safety off with one hand.

"Sir."

* * *

"_I can't make that shot," John muttered as he stared up at the practice dummy. "No one can-"_

_Moran turned and fired three times._

_The dummy convulsed as the bullets hit home._

"_Your turn."_

_John sighed and raised the gun._

"_Breathe," Moran hissed. "Relax. You know where it is."_

_John drew in a calming breath and started to flex his finger in time with the pattern of his exhale._

"_Your hands are nearly as steady as mine," Moran approved. "Good."_

_The first shot missed. But Moran nodded. "Close. Not bad for a first attempt."_

* * *

"Maybe he'll talk him down," Greg argued. "Sherlock can get out of anything."

"Ava can't," John said, eyes fixed on Moriarty's hand where it clenched around his daughter's. "And Sherlock won't leave her."

* * *

"_You could have made that shot," Moran snarled as John dumped his gear on the table._

"_She wasn't a threat-"_

"_You didn't know that." Moran grabbed at his uniform and yanked John towards him. "When I tell you to shoot, you shoot. Got it, soldier?"_

_John jerked himself away. "She wasn't a threat," he repeated._

"_I could have you up for insubordination." Moran let John tear himself loose._

"_You won't though." John tilted his chin. "Because you know I'm right."_

"_It's not about being right, Watson. It's about winning."_

"_And damn the consequences?" John asked, swallowing hard. "That's not what I signed up for."_

_Moran pulled back. "Then you'll never get what you want."_

_The look on his face told John it was over. Whatever Moran had been doing with him, this had put a stop to his interest. Their argument had been heard throughout the camp as they'd walked through and Moran would never forgive him for that._

_John paused at the exit. "I could," he said, turning. "If I had to, if it was the right thing to do, I'd do whatever it took."_

"_I know." Moran turned his head to John fractionally. "That's why this pisses me off so much." He turned back to his work. "You could do great things, Watson, but you'll forever be stuck just doing good things."_

* * *

Ashcroft twisted and looked at John. "They're gonna go," he warned.

"Jesus," Lestrade hissed, looking around. "John-"

They would fall.

That image, that horrific image that had been burned into his brain of Sherlock's body tipping forward, arms outstretched with no one there to catch had been a lie.

He couldn't watch the reality.

Sherlock was holding her hand.

He wouldn't let go.

John had to believe that.

He wouldn't let go.

* * *

_Standing in that building, opposite Sherlock with the pill-popping cabby, he could have sworn he heard Moran whispering in his ear._

_Breathe._

_Relax._

_Fire._

_And when the cabbie toppled over and Sherlock stared in shock for a second, John felt the hint of a smile._

_A great shot and a good thing._

_Moran had been wrong, he thought, ducking down as Sherlock slid over the table towards the window. And this wasn't the army, where someone told him what to do or he was caught in the heat of battle; this had just been him. Just John._

_And just like that the worry, the slight nagging weight he'd carried around for all those years, vanished. The tremulous feeling that had haunted him for the past few months smoothed out and faded._

_He could do this._

_He would always be able to do this._

* * *

Ashcroft yanked Greg down, moving both of them out the way and giving John room.

_Breathe._

John curled his finger around the trigger as he swung it up.

_Relax._

There was the start of a gasp behind him, even as he allowed his shoulders to fall and his arm to steady against the jolt so as not to upset the sighting.

_Fire._

He pulled the trigger as he let his breath out.

Moriarty's head snapped back as the bullet caught him in the neck. His body flashed back towards the roof but the angle slanted his feet and down he went.

Ava's hand still in his.

No.

God, no.

John started forward, but this time both Ashcroft and Greg grabbed at him, hauling him back. He couldn't do anything but watch Moriarty tumble forwards limply, pulling Ava with him.

Until Sherlock tightened his grip, crashing down to the side in a move that must have damaged his ribs, still hanging on to her hand. Moriarty jolted loose and then fell, free from Ava, and slammed into the pavement below.

Mycroft appeared at the edge of the roof, next to Sherlock. John felt his legs give way as both Ava and Sherlock finally disappeared from the edge. Greg sank down with him and Ashcroft finally reattached his headset.

"Jesus Christ, Watson," Greg breathed. "You never said you could shoot like that."

"Who the hell do you think saved that inconsiderate dick the first time we met?" John gasped, feeling sick with relief.

"I didn't hear that," Greg muttered, "I never heard that."

John glanced behind him, feeling as if he'd just sprinted a marathon.

"But bloody good shot."

John nodded. "Yeah, it was." He waited until his breathing was almost back to normal. "Greg-"

"I know." Greg hauled himself up, looking unsteady on his feet and, after a moment's hesitation, held out his hand to John.

They stood opposite each other and, with a last look at the still empty edge, John nodded.

"John Watson, you are under arrest…"

* * *

"This is wrong," Donovan said, leaning on the car. "Sir, this is wrong."

Greg's shoulders were firmed. "I can't do anything. The press have the damned thing on film."

Donovan glanced over at John helplessly. The emergency medical services had surrounded the body, hiding it from view as they waited for forensics to arrive.

They needn't have bothered, John thought dully. There were probably already hundreds of photographs and a few film reels circulating among the press behind them.

"It's fine," he said tightly for what felt like the twentieth time. "Just let me see them before we go."

"God, Sherlock's gonna kill us," Donovan muttered, staring at the members of the press who were hanging over the police lines.

"They're coming down," Ashcroft said suddenly.

"Do they know?" Greg asked, standing up.

Ashcroft shook his head. "Mr Holmes went up before the shot went off. And they've ignored everyone on their way down."

John stared down at the handcuffs on his hands. Greg followed his gaze and reached into his pocket for the key.

"Don't." John stared at the exit. "Unless you can think of a way to explain it quicker than these can." He shook his hands.

Greg winced and then turned to Donovan. "You want to do something? Get the press out of here. I'm not having a photo of this in the paper tomorrow."

Donovan vanished and, before long, the press were herded back until the building blocked their view.

John shifted from where he sat on the bonnet of the car. "Thank you."

"For what, arresting you?" Greg muttered.

"This can't be easy for you." John took a deep breath. "And when Sherlock gets himself together he is going to make your life hell."

"Well, at least he'll have a good reason now." Greg pushed away from the car. "I'll go help Sally."

John nodded and swallowed.

And then it was just him and Ashcroft.

He had a split second's warning when Ashcroft suddenly stood a little straighter. And then the door of Bart's was opening and Mycroft Holmes strode out, looking uncharacteristically rumpled and pale, despite the ruddiness at his cheeks.

Behind him was Sherlock. Ava's head was burrowed into his shoulder and his hand was splayed across the back of her head as if he were shielding her from the world.

John glanced behind himself, half to check that the press hadn't snuck round and half to avoid seeing the dawning realisation in Sherlock's eyes when he saw the handcuffs.

It was a testament to how utterly rocked Sherlock was that they didn't even seem to register. Mycroft stopped mid-step, a look of sheer horror dawning, but Sherlock just barrelled on over to John, oblivious for once in his life.

And that, more than anything else, brought the tears to John's eyes.

Sherlock was physically shaking when he got to him. He pressed his forehead to John's; his usual gesture for comfort and what most people would use a bone-crushing hug to convey. Carefully, John raised his bound hands, stroking Sherlock's cheek and pressing a kiss to Ava's hair, breathing them in, alive and warm, flesh and blood, real and in front of him.

Safe.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" Sherlock whispered over and over again.

John shook his head. "Shush," he tried to soothe him. Over Sherlock's shoulder he could see Mycroft snapping rapidly at Greg.

John pulled back to look into Sherlock's eyes.

"Is she okay?"

Sherlock nodded and then shook his head. "I don't know," he confessed. "We…we need to get her home." He sounded a bit steadier already. "You need to check her over and we need to go home."

"Sherlock-"

"I…I don't want a hospital. I can't…they'll take her away-"

"Sherlock-"

"Unless we have to. But you have to stay with her at all times. And text me every five minutes-"

"Sherlock!" John snapped and Sherlock blinked back to him. "Sherlock…who do you think fired the gun?"

Sherlock stared at him for a full ten seconds.

"No…No." Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion. "No…I had your gun."

"Do you honestly think I don't know the signs that you're about to steal my gun?" John asked, trying to smile and aware that the tears streaming down his face meant he was failing miserably. "It was a spare."

Sherlock frowned. "I…"

And then he looked down at John's hands.

"Why?" he breathed.

"Moriarty couldn't go without an audience…" John hated the blank look in Sherlock's eyes. The Sherlock he knew wouldn't have taken more than a fraction of a second to comprehend the import of what John was saying. "He called the press."

If it was possible Sherlock went even whiter. Dawning comprehension bled into his eyes.

"No," he mouthed, stumbling back precariously. "No." His voice cracked on the word.

Helplessly, John watched, tears flowing freely down his cheeks now.

Sherlock pressed against him again, and Ava somehow ended up more in John's grasp than in Sherlock's. And, though he dimly knew what Sherlock was about to do, John couldn't help but grab his little girl, clutch her to him and slide down in relief at having her in his arms again.

Alive.

Shaking with the pounding of his heart, he watched Sherlock launch himself at Greg. Watched Mycroft pull him off and try to talk him down. He heard Sherlock shout and roar at them all without being able to pick the words out from the screaming in his own head.

And saw when Sherlock realised that there was absolutely no way out of this. There was no special fix Mycroft could do, no sneaky twisting of the rules from Greg or even Sherlock's own wickedly intelligent loopholes. Watched Sherlock sag in Mycroft's grip, knees buckling and almost hitting the ground.

It hurt to watch. He didn't have any strength left in him to watch. Instead, he buried his face in Ava's hair, hating how still and quiet she was. He could feel the shaken tension in her, like a scared wild animal that had frozen out of some primordial instinct for self-protection.

And then Sherlock was there, hands gripping at John with frantic urgency.

"Tell them I made you do it," he begged. "Tell them it was me, tell them I-"

John just shook his head. "No. I did it. I killed him. I did it in front of a camera crew. In front of photographers and journalists. I did it."

Sherlock shook his head. "I will never forgive you for this," he whispered fiercely.

Hysterical laughter bubbled out of John's mouth. "Try," he suggested. "'Cause I'm not apologising for saving your life."

Sherlock collapsed onto John and shook as he bunched John's shirt in his hands, tangling all three of them together in a heap. Awkwardly, John clutched at Sherlock's hair, wishing now he'd taken Greg up on the offer to remove the cuffs.

Over Sherlock's curls he saw Greg watching helplessly and Mycroft leaning against the wall with his eyes closed as if to steady himself. Most of Mycroft's team were looking at anything but them and Ashcroft had a hand over his mouth, eyes dark with sorrow.

A sudden hateful image flashed into John's head, an image of just how much worse it could have been. He tightened his grip on the two people in his arms, convinced that he'd have put the gun to his own head if it had happened.

They were alive and damn the consequences.

He would never know how he managed to do it. How he managed to move his mouth to Sherlock's ear and whisper instructions regarding Ava. How he managed to withstand Sherlock's fierce, begging pleas to just say that he had threatened John and made him do it. How he nodded at Greg and tried to shift Sherlock away.

How in the end they had to drag Sherlock off him and how Mycroft, looking so desperately unsettled, took Ava gently, which prompted Sherlock to kick up another storm until Ava was placed back in his arms. How he managed to let Greg walk them around the building and into the onslaught of flashbulbs and shouts from the press as they got in the car.

It was only in the car, driving away, that John started to shake. Greg talked to him in gentle, quiet tones about nothing in particular and Sally offered a soft kindness from the front of the car.

He never knew how he managed to let go.

* * *

Author's Note: Given what a blabber mouth I usually am with replies to reviews, you have no idea how hard that has been to not say - especially at the end of PwL!


	26. Chapter 25: 22nd July

**Chapter 25:**

**22nd July**

**Sherlock struggles to cope in the aftermath.**

**22****nd**** July**

_He stepped onto the roof and shot._

_Moriarty's face was a portrait of surprise as he slumped to the ground. Dead._

_He scooped Ava up and she grabbed at him, hugging him._

Sherlock opened his eyes.

The room was starting to lighten slightly. He could make out the wardrobe, the mirror, the desk. For a long time he just stared at a shrinking shadow.

Sleep was out of the question at the moment. The three times he had tried he had woken almost screaming because of the images that haunted him.

Ava, dangling in the air, slipping from his grip.

John, in handcuffs, being taken away.

And he couldn't wake screaming.

In his arms, snuggled up against him so tight there wasn't even a hint of a gap, was Ava. She couldn't fall asleep at the moment unless he was holding her and she had been in such a state the one time he had slipped out of bed that he hadn't dared do so again.

Only one of them could wake up screaming.

* * *

By the time dawn came, Sherlock was sitting up in bed, Ava in his lap, as she hid her face from the world and shook, crying into him. As always, by the time morning came, she was drenched in sweat from her nightmares, her face damp with tears.

There had to be a way to make it better, to take her fear and her nightmares, to take the memory that was keeping her from saying a word to him, to anyone.

He just had to find it.

John would know-

He turned from the thought.

John wasn't here. It was just the two of them now. It might just be the two of them for a long time.

John had shot a man in front of the press, in front of rolling cameras. More than that, he had used his own gun and had just been excused from a murder charge.

They should have run.

A gentle knock at the door had Sherlock sigh at the clock. Seven-thirty already?

He hated staying with Mycroft. The constant, overly predictable routine made him want to scream.

As if nothing else did at the moment.

Mycroft stepped through and found them both in the faded light of the room. "Breakfast?" he asked.

Sherlock despised breakfast. He could barely look at it. He nodded reluctantly and slipped from the bed, keeping Ava in his arms.

* * *

How could his fiercely alive, spirited little girl be the same as this one that ate on automatic, like some mechanical doll they'd just wound up?

What had Moriarty done to her?

They'd examined her at the hospital. Bruises on her arms from where she'd been gripped. Her hand was probably the worst and that had been from him. They'd told him he should be grateful that her shoulder hadn't dislocated with the drop and the impact but at least he'd managed to do something right with that.

Mycroft had asked…had wanted them to check she hadn't been…thankfully the examination had shown there hadn't been any hint of sexual assault but-

He needed to get his mind off of that. Until she started speaking there was no way of knowing exactly what Moriarty had done, or had allowed to happen.

_"You rewrote it," he murmured, stunned. Someone had crossed out his name and she had rewritten it, as thick and as obvious as she could._

_"I didn't want her to cross it out again," came the sullen reply. Clearly she was still upset by it._

_Cameras._

"_You are correct," he said, closing the book and holding onto it. "I will talk to her"-_

No. That wouldn't have worked. Her reaction-

"_I see. Give this note to her." He scribbled the message down on a separate piece of paper. "And the matter will be dealt with."_

Possibly?

No.

How much damage had already been done before Ava walked into the room and showed him her work? How extensive were "Mrs Brooks'" observations? Had she already relayed the information?

They needed to find her. He needed to know.

Had they stood a chance before that-

He blinked and suddenly pictured the page in his mind's eye, ignoring the part that still made his heart flutter oddly.

A) Cold

B) Wet

C) Old

D) Light

E) Soft

F) Sad

G) Dad.

H) Good

He opened his eyes.

Why on earth had 'Dad' been included?

It had been a test.

He should have seen it. But all his attention had been focused on his name next to 'Dad'. On the fact that she had fought another student and then a teacher for the validity of the statement.

He'd had no way of knowing about the supply teacher, except that it should have been obvious to him that the dull Mrs Parker would never have crossed it out, but would probably have been on the phone to John the moment she could to warn them or to pass on the good news. He'd had no reason to be suspicious of the task, except that he had spent months upon months pretending to the world that Ava meant nothing to him and he'd completely forgotten to worry that the world might simply want to test how she felt about him.

Stupid.

Stupid!

* * *

She'd finished breakfast.

At least she was eating, he supposed.

* * *

"Visit John," Mycroft said softly as he held Ava.

"But-"

"Go. I have her," Mycroft promised. "You need to see him. You should hear what the lawyer says."

* * *

Prison.

John was in prison.

The sentence, despite having feared it for months, just didn't sound right. Prison, with its loud clanking doors, the smell of metal and confinement.

Not for John. John was summer sky and tea. Running through London and loud, infectious giggles. He was a warm, cosy bed and stuttered gasps of pleasure.

Not this.

Never this.

He walked through the checks, feeling an odd sort of daze. He'd visited enough -

Oh God, the word 'prisoner' should never be used in conjunction with John. Never.

But it was.

When he finally got to the private room they'd secured for John to meet the lawyer in, Sherlock stared. The guard made an aggrieved noise, as if Sherlock's lack of movement were a personal affront, and cleared his throat pointedly.

John.

John.

He stepped forward slowly, staring at nothing but the tired, concerned, dark blue gaze.

Step by step he made his way over, not even caring when he was locked in the room. Step, then step again, then-

He crashed to his knees and buried his face in John's lap.

It barely smelt of him. They didn't use the same washing powder here as John did at the flat. The thought made him raise his hands to clench and pull at any piece of spare material he could lay his hands on.

John.

He'd missed him so much.

How was he meant to do this? It had barely been four days so far.

John curled over him, shaking a little, and there was an odd, muffled sound from above him as a hand stroked through Sherlock's hair.

For the first time in days, he allowed himself to stop holding onto being the strong one. He needed John, he needed him home to help, he needed…

He just needed him. He always needed him.

John drew in a strong breath and then gentle hands were at his chin, encouraging him up. He stared up at John, still gripping on to his trousers like death itself might come if he let go.

"That's probably the nicest hello I've ever had from you," John said, trying to smile.

No. No, his nicest hello should not have taken place in a prison. He'd gotten it all so wrong, been so arrogant. Desperate, he reached out and cupped John's face in his hands, leaning up and putting pressure on his own bruised and fractured ribs.

He wanted to say something comforting. To help John, to reassure him. To let him know that everything at home would be fine. That he would keep them going until John came back to take the helm again.

He opened his mouth.

"I can't do this," Sherlock heard himself say. "I can't do this. I don't know how," he whispered, the words spilling out without his permission.

He couldn't. That was the simple truth of the matter. They'd have to let John go because Sherlock couldn't manage this; this was not what he was built for.

But John, wonderful John, didn't seem to understand that. He smiled fondly, eyes bright with tears, and wrapped his own hands comfortingly around Sherlock's wrists. "You can," he said with what sounded like absolute belief. "You can do anything."

"Not this." Sherlock shook his head. "I'm not you."

John closed his eyes and leaned forward, until their foreheads nearly touched, his breathing suddenly a little more ragged.

"I need you to do this," John said, his voice catching. "Please."

But…Sherlock stared at him helplessly. Anything, anything at all.

Just not coping without John. It was the one thing he couldn't do anymore.

"I need you to be you," John pleaded, still leaning against Sherlock with his eyes closed. "I need you to come here and tell me what mad-cap scheme you've cooked up this week and if someone's come up with an insult for you that's creative enough for you to enjoy. I need you to complain about Mrs Hudson tidying our home." John opened his eyes and pulled back to look at him seriously. "I need you to look after our daughter."

Our daughter.

Our Ava.

Sherlock swallowed, hating how much he was already failing to help her.

"I need you." John reached for the back of Sherlock's neck, his hand a comforting, grounding weight. "I always need you."

And I need you.

At home.

Sherlock nodded, tilting his face and capturing John's lips. Wave after wave of desperate kisses struck and Sherlock hated that they were was the same type of kiss that they had been last time.

Goodbye.

* * *

_If, if, if._

_Far too late for that now._

_Far too late to do anything but ensure damage limitation. And, with that in mind, he stroked down John's sides, tracing muscles and movement._

_Then reached to tug the gun free of the back of __John's jeans._

_John pulled back instantly._

"_Sherlock-"_

"_It might be the only chance," Sherlock whispered, nuzzling his cheek and breathing in the warm, fresh skin._

_Just one more minute._

"_I'll-"_

There. John had been too calm, too accepting. Sherlock had taken away his one method of protecting their family and Sherlock should have seen-

But if he had, he and Ava would be dead. And John…John would have eaten a bullet by now.

If.

Far too late for that now.

* * *

The meeting with the lawyer had not gone well.

Premeditation.

Press interest.

National debate.

The court needed to deter the idea of vigilantism. How ironic that, without the press, that might have never been an issue and yet now…

John had brought his own gun to the scene. His illegal gun, one might add.

They would have to make an example of him. Of the stupid, idiotically noble man who had been so desperate to protect everyone that he hadn't even used Lestrade's gun, just to keep him out of it.

Sherlock hurled the flimsy table at the wall and stared as the chemicals that had been laid upon it dripped down the wallpaper.

'_And the hapless soldiers sigh_

_Runs in blood down palace walls._

_In every voice, in every ban,_

_The mind forged manacles I hear.'_

Blake.

He started to laugh.

Eight days. Eight days until the trial began and the doors to John slammed shut.

He couldn't do this.


	27. Chapter 26: July 27th to August 4th

27th July to August 4th

Ava is in therapy and John goes through his trial.

* * *

Thank you so much to swissmiss for editing this and providing such fab links to the research. It's a much better chapter because of it :)

* * *

Therapy for a child that couldn't talk.

Mycroft had the oddest ideas sometimes. Sherlock, however, had gone along with it because there hadn't exactly been any other ideas pushed his way.

The moment the woman opened her mouth he had the distinct impression he had been played.

They sat in a room that had been designed by someone who didn't quite grasp how to be subtle in creating a calm space. Cool blues and greens, soft woods, a fucking fountain outside. Ava was in his lap, peering at everything with wide eyes and gripping onto his shirt hard.

"How are you feeling?" Elaine Applewhite asked Sherlock.

He did attempt to give her the benefit of the doubt. He looked behind him and then at Ava and then at the therapist. "I am not here for therapy," he stated when she continued to watch him.

"But your daughter is," she said calmly. "We wish to encourage her, to show her that talking about her feelings is a good thing, a safe thing. What better way than for you to show her just how beneficial it is?"

Mycroft. Those were Mycroft's words.

Damn him to bloody hell.

Sherlock smiled tightly at her. "Fine," he said.

"_It's fine. It's all fine."_

Sherlock shook John's voice away.

"Do you think that's a helpful example?"

Frustrated, Sherlock slid down the sofa and tipped his head over the back. "I have nightmares," he said eventually.

"No, she has nightmares, you don't sleep."

Mycroft was going to die, slowly and painfully. "I…" Sherlock stared at the ceiling.

For Ava.

"I imagine different scenarios," Sherlock said to the pattern above him. "How…where I went wrong, what I should have done differently."

"Does that help?"

"I haven't found it yet," Sherlock snapped.

"Do you think that means there isn't one?"

Oddly amused, Sherlock tilted his head back up to look at her. "Solving a puzzle isn't always easy-"

"This isn't a puzzle, this is your life," she said without hesitation. "Does it make it easier to pretend that it's a puzzle to solve?"

Sherlock studied her. "Why is my brother paying you for this when he's already made the diagnosis?"

"Why aren't you talking to him?" she asked easily.

Sherlock shifted Ava in his arms. Thinking.

"There are two people in the world I care about. Who are the most precious and without whom I would be nothing," he said slowly. "One has gone and one is…upset." He brushed a kiss over Ava's hair, trying to show her just how important she was.

She leaned into him just a little more and rubbed her cheek against his shirt.

Ms Applewhite nodded at him, accepting that Ava should be the one they were focusing on. "Is it helpful? To say those things out loud, to voice your feelings?"

No. "Yes," he said, lying for Ava.

Slowly, infinitely slowly, Ava shook her head against his chest.

It was the most he'd got out of her since the roof.

* * *

"You do need to talk to someone," the therapist commented as they ended the session.

"No," Sherlock said, watching with a glare at Mycroft put Ava's coat onto her, down the hall. It was almost strange to see his brother handling the little girl so carefully and with such focus. "I don't."

"Would you talk to John?" she asked, sounding curious.

Stupid woman. "He's a little busy right now," Sherlock snapped.

"Does he have his phone?"

Stunned, he turned to her. "He's in prison, you twit. Of course he doesn't-

"Text him. Everything you would usually tell him, everything you want to tell someone. Text it to him."

* * *

_**27**__**th**__** July**__** 11.37pm**__: Therapist said this would help. She's an idiot. SH_

_**27**__**th**__** July 11.43pm: **__Ribs hurt, doctor's an idiot too. I'm surrounded by them. SH_

_**28**__**th**__** July 02.34am**__: Ava's having a nightmare, what do I do? SH_

_**28**__**th**__** July 06.17am**__: Forgot you can't text back. Stupid__. SH_

* * *

Moriarty was buried with minimal fuss the day before John's trial was meant to start.

"Don't do anything," Mycroft said quietly. "Do not draw attention."

Sherlock slammed the door behind him.

* * *

He prowled the graveyard all night.

It wouldn't help matters; their biggest obstacle at the moment to John getting a short sentence was the press. The bloody media wouldn't leave it alone, hyping up the debates, putting a focus on the case that made it impossible for people to use their common sense.

If he could, if only he could, he would dig that devil up and tear the corpse up with his bare hands, strew the remains along South Bank to show them what a true vigilante was. That John was simply a hero, saving lives that otherwise would have been lost.

Sherlock was the one who should be punished, not him.

But Sherlock hadn't fired the gun. Sherlock hadn't premeditated the death by bringing the bloody thing with him.

He kicked uselessly at the railings, staring into the darkness.

* * *

**30****th**** July**

The one blessing about the court case was that Sherlock got to see more of John. Even if it was in a small room to meet with the solicitor at the court house.

Even if a guard stood watch at the door.

And Sherlock so rarely got to see John in a suit.

"You should wear them more often," Sherlock murmured as he drew the tie between his fingers, reluctant to hand it over. John looked good without one.

And giving him the tie was far too much like drawing a rope around his neck.

"You wear them enough for the pair of us. We'd look like fucking governmental officials if I wore one too," John said, looking tired.

Doubtful.

Stepping close, Sherlock turned the collar of John's shirt up and threaded the tie through it, pulling at the ends to get the right lengths before he started to tie the knot.

"I can do it," John said gently.

"I'm aware of that," Sherlock replied, focusing on his task. His hands worked slowly, carefully, not to pull at John.

"And you're not tempted to strangle me with it?"

He had been. Meeting after meeting where the issue of that bloody gun came up.

Why hadn't he used Lestrade's?

Why?

But now was not the time to rehash it. Slowly, he raised his gaze. "I seem to be slowly mastering the art of patience recently," he said gently.

Lying.

"Could have fooled me," John muttered, watching him closely.

Sherlock almost smiled. "Perhaps most of it is used up by the time I get here. You don't have to listen to a psychologist prattle on all day."

John flinched a little and Sherlock inwardly berated himself.

He was getting it wrong.

But John flashed a tight smile and shook his head. "I can imagine that's annoying," he said softly. "Bad enough when I had to have an evaluation."

"And told the truth," Sherlock muttered.

"I'm not you, I couldn't predict how it would go. If they'd caught me trying to lie…" John shook his head.

They shouldn't be in these roles. It was as if their parts had been swapped by a moronic director and there was nothing Sherlock could do.

As the silence continued, John licked his lips. "You…you did listen, to what the lawyer said?"

Sherlock nodded once.

"I'll be good; they'll push my release up when the fuss over this dies down. Whatever the sentence, we can get it reduced." John sounded as if he was trying to be positive.

Mycroft had said it might be years.

Years.

What if they couldn't reduce the media attention? What if Mycroft couldn't misdirect the attention and get a retrial in six months' time?

John looked down, his eyelashes fluttering as he watched Sherlock's hands. "Has she spoken?"

"No." Sherlock tightened the knot and raised it to settle neatly at John's collar. "Soon, I think," he added as he turned the collar down and adjusted the tie's position.

He just caught John's hopeful look.

"She's looking for things, her expressions are more animated." God, it was pathetic how much he watched for those things now. "Soon," he repeated, not entirely sure who he was trying to convince.

"Good, that's good." John took a deep breath and looked away.

They were so stilted. It was utterly foreign to him, to feel this distance between himself and John. As if physical proximity could help, Sherlock reached out and adjusted the tie again.

"Are you eating properly?"

That was more like it. Sherlock nodded.

"Mycroft has been sitting me down for three square meals a day," he said, keeping hold of the tie. It was stupid to think that contact had anything to do with the suddenly familiar territory, but he wasn't risking letting go.

"Sleeping?" John asked, sounding a little stronger.

"I'm in bed by one," Sherlock replied.

John nodded. "Right." His hand reached up to cover Sherlock's. "But are you eating and sleeping?"

His John. Sherlock almost smiled properly for what felt like the first time in years. "Don't fuss, John," he said gently.

"It's my job," John said, stroking the back of Sherlock's hand.

"No." Sherlock caught his gaze fiercely. "Coming home in one piece and as soon as possible is your job at the moment. Your only job."

John nodded and then looked away. Sherlock tugged a little on his tie, hoping to draw the attention and conversation back.

John sighed. "Mycroft seems to think that somehow I'll manage to keep my medical licence," he said in a voice that implied he thought Mycroft was insane.

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. "Mycroft would."

Mycroft wanted to do something. His brother despised being useless.

As if it would help matters to have John still a legal doctor while in prison.

"It won't help though, will it? Who in their right minds would hire-"

Shut up.

Sherlock pressed forward, catching John's lips before another stupid word spilt from them. John was brilliant, wonderful, and anyone who thought differently because of what he had done was a moron who deserved to be left with substandard doctors.

He tried to keep it slow, to restrain the urge to try and crawl inside John and hide. His hands slipped up from the tie and pulled John close to him, desperate to keep him in the room forever and away from strangers who suddenly had the power to decide the next few years of their life.

To his horror, he could feel John start to shake in his arms.

If he could, if there was any possible way, he would take John and flee. He'd dive in front of a bullet for the man, beg for the prison sentence to be transmuted to him, swallow poison or be discredited all over again.

Why, why couldn't he change this?

"It will be all right," Sherlock heard himself whisper. "I'll make sure it will all be all right."

It was an empty promise and he could feel the way John sagged against him.

"I promise you." Sherlock pressed a kiss to the corner of John's mouth, frantic to calm him down. "I promise." He pulled back to see John's face. "No matter what happens, I won't leave you."

John nodded and reached up to stroke Sherlock's cheek.

* * *

**2****nd**** August**

He hated it. Absolutely hated it.

At night, Sherlock would go to Mycroft's, almost shaking with impotence at the situation. Ava would usually be lurking by the door and Mycroft would hover, watching them both with worried eyes.

Most of the time, Sherlock ignored him in favour of scooping up his daughter and locking them away in a room somewhere, clutching onto her for dear life.

_"A person may use such force as is reasonable in the circumstances in the prevention of crime, or in effecting or assisting in the lawful arrest of offende__rs or suspected offenders or of persons unlawfully at large."__(1)_

Reasonable was arbitrary. A debate. Prevention was dependent on point of view, apparently. Would Moriarty have jumped? Would he have gone through with it?

Yes, Sherlock had almost screamed at them. How could anyone look at the footage and not see the intention on Moriarty's face, not see the triumphant smile?

"_A balance must be struck here. While we understand the necessity and right to defend those we love, we cannot be blind to the clear premeditation John Watson showed in bringing his own gun to shoot a man. A man who had plagued his life, threatened his loved ones and discredited his partner. Are we to really believe this wasn't an act of vengeance, of vigilantism?"_

"He's coming back," Sherlock whispered to his daughter as he pressed a kiss to her hair. "He'll be back soon."

_The defence cannot show that John Watson acted solely out of a defensive spirit. Had James Moriarty been apprehended by the police, or talked down, he may still have had the resources to make life difficult for Mr Watson. And we have seen from Mr Watson's own record that a suspicious number of people seem to die and ease circumstances for him-"_

"_Mr Watson has been cleared of all other charges against him. Their relevance here clouds-"_

Ava snuggled closer to him and peered up, a flicker of hope in her eyes.

"_Mr Waston knowingly brought a weapon to the scene. Despite all the officers and agents present, he still felt the need to arm himself."_

He couldn't look at her expression, couldn't face that emotion in her eyes.

"_No one else could have made that shot, we haven't had that sort of training," Lestrade insisted as he sat in the witness dock. "And if John hadn't-"_

"_You are a long term friend of Mr Watson's, are you not?"_

_Lestrade clicked his jaw. "I am. I can be friends with him all I like, it still won't make me a crack shot like he is."_

Pulling Ava close, Sherlock stared at the windows, still light with the August sun.

_Could Mr Watson have shot his legs perhaps? Or his arm, the one holding Miss Watson? Do you believe that it had to be a killing shot-"_

"_At that distance the aim would have been difficult to predict-"_

"_Yet we have Mr Watson's service records, the notes that claim he was an excellent shot. Everyone in this room, nearly every witness claims that Mr Watson was the only one present who could have made that shot. Are you telling me that a man with such reputable aim found it easier to aim for the throat than two legs? I ask you again, did it have to be a killing shot?"_

"_I don't-"_

"_Because if so, we can hardly term this as a reasonable defence. In fact one would class this as excessive violence to the situation."_

"You need to eat," Mycroft said gently as he approached the bed. When he had opened the door, Sherlock had no clue. "Both of you."

"We need John," Sherlock murmured, staring at nothing. "We need John."

Mycroft looked away and said nothing.

They didn't need to speak to say what they both could see was happening.

* * *

**4****th**** August**

_High degree of provocation._

_Manslaughter._

_Manslaughter?_

Sherlock stared blankly at the wall as the words echoed through his head.

That wasn't right…it couldn't be right… Lost, he looked at Mycroft, whose mouth was fixed in a straight, white, narrow line.

Across from him, Lestrade leaned forward, hands over his mouth. He looked ill. Donovan had closed her eyes.

Sherlock shook his head.

It wasn't…that couldn't be…

"No," he murmured to Mycroft. "That's at least three years…" Sherlock leaned forward suddenly as nausea threatened to overwhelm him.

He couldn't…he just couldn't…

Sitting up suddenly, he searched for John.

John, who looked utterly ashen. Who was looking as shell-shocked as Sherlock felt.

"How long?" Sherlock whispered to his brother, keeping his eyes fixed on John. But John, seeing the words form on Sherlock's lips, darted his gaze to Mycroft and shook his head slightly.

"Ava," John mouthed at Sherlock, looking as if he were forcing himself to stay upright. "Ava needs you."

_I need you._

"You don't need to see this," Mycroft murmured, grabbing Sherlock's elbow.

"I am not a child-"

"You do not need to see him led away," Mycroft snarled, almost hauling Sherlock out of his seat and bundling him to the exit.

Frantic, Sherlock turned, searching for John, but his mind was so lost, so disorientated that he struggled to see him.

He needed to get back, to see-

"How long?" he hissed at Mycroft as they made it to the door, hoping the question would distract-

"Six years."

The world fell away momentarily and Sherlock stumbled.

No.

No. He tore away from Mycroft before his mind processed more than that simple word and headed straight for the toilets, sickened by his horror and fury.

How?

Barrelling through the doors to the toilet, Sherlock strode to the stall and slammed his fist into the door over and over. When that didn't help he spun to the sinks, glaring at his reflection and clenching his hands around the porcelain.

At the edge of the mirror he could see Mycroft step in and close the door behind him.

"Sherlock-"

"How?" Sherlock snarled, standing up properly and turning to his brother. "How? How could they be so thick?" he roared, kicking at the stall door.

"You need to calm down-"

"Calm down? Calm down? Were you not in there? Did you not hear-" His mind skittered away from the sentence. "You said he'd be out within a year, you promised me-"

"I haven't broken that yet." Mycroft stepped forward quickly. "I told you, we can do nothing while the media are interested in this. We can do nothing while they are focusing on it. There had to be no sign of favouritism, no hint of giving him leeway. The sentence had to be harsh because if we get reporters sniffing around an appeal we need to know that they will be on our side after what just happened."

Sherlock shook his head. "Six years," he snarled in utter disbelief. "Six years-"

"He won't serve one," Mycroft insisted. "I promise you, Sherlock. John will be back before the year is finished. I will bury this story, I will throw whatever I can out there to distract them, but I need time."

"This should never have happened," Sherlock hissed at him. "You were meant to kill him, you were meant to have competent people. I gave him to you and you with all your minions and influence, failed."

Mycroft swallowed tightly, suddenly looking terribly old. "I-"

Sherlock turned and smashed his fist in the mirror, watching as his refection shattered.

* * *

**4****th**** August 4.56:** _I can't do this. Not without you. I don't know how._

* * *

Author's Note:

Thanks to swissmiss for her fab research into the proceedings and the law bits! You can find the first quote and subsequent information used at"cps"."gov"."uk" or "www"." .uk"/"legal/s"_to_u/"self_defence/#Pre-emptive_strikes"

And as to the sentencing, there is this guideline: the same start but - /legal/s_to_u/sentencing_manual/manslaughter_provocation/


	28. Chapter 27: August 14th to 19th

Chapter Twenty-Seven

14th August to 19th August

Author's Note: Thanks for the lovely reviews and for being patient with these updates :)

Thank you to swissmiss for betain :)

* * *

**14th August**

Ten days.

It had been ten days since the trial finished, ten days since John was taken away.

The first day had been spent with Ava, curled up with her on the sofa as they both watched something on the television that neither of them had any interest in. Mycroft had stayed home, watching them from the desk he had set up in his large and rarely used lounge.

He'd even bought some chocolate biscuits and Sherlock hadn't quite found the energy to snipe at his brother about the diet.

It had taken a few days before he had become bored of the same four walls and gone to the Yard.

He hadn't even cared that Anderson's jaw dropped when he found Sherlock on the floor with cold cases spread around him.

They'd left him to it. Lestrade asked him every morning if he needed something and every morning Sherlock bit his tongue and stared at the thick sheaves of documents.

John.

He needed John.

* * *

**15th August**

"How can he get off?" Sherlock roared at Lestrade. "He killed a man!"

"The evidence-"

Sherlock snarled and paced the office, furious. "He did it. Drag him back here and I will get your evidence-"

Lestrade's eyes followed him warily. "Sit down and-"

"Officer Mellor is incompetent," Sherlock snapped. "Losing evidence, using idiotic evidence, poor paperwork-"

"Like you can talk about that," Lestrade muttered under his breath, scrubbing at his forehead.

"Why couldn't you be half as incompetent?"

The words seemed to physically hit Lestrade and he flinched, all earlier annoyance fading away instantly. "You saw the evidence-"

"He could have used your gun," Sherlock hissed, the frustration bleeding out like poison. "They wouldn't have been able to claim it as premeditation if John had used your gun-"

"He refused-"

"You should have made him." Sherlock slammed his fist on the desk. "You should have swapped them. You shouldn't have given him the spare to give to me-"

"Then you'd be dead," Lestrade snarled back, standing to face Sherlock. "Ava would be dead. John said he needed to know the gun. Jesus, that shot was impossible, Sherlock-"

"You helped him," Sherlock growled. "You should be in there, not him."

Lestrade flinched. "I did everything I could-"

"He's in prison for six years." Sherlock swept his hand across the desk, knocking the objects upon it flying. "How hard did you try?"

Lestrade bowed his head a little, and then seemed to firm up. "You need to calm down-"

"Why?" Sherlock challenged. "What will you do? Lock me up as well?"

Lestrade just shook his head and sank back into his chair with a long sigh, as if everything had been drained from him all at once. "Go home. Go home to that little girl."

"I can do nothing." Sherlock stared down at Lestrade, wanting him back up again, wanting the fight. "Nothing. I cannot make her talk, I cannot get John back. You can-"

"I can't." Lestrade slumped even further down in the chair. "And you know I can't, Sherlock."

"I…" Sherlock could feel his breathing stumble. "I cannot just sit here and do nothing. I will not…" He broke off. "Give me a case."

"No."

"Any case," Sherlock added, standing away from the desk and trying to draw calm back into him. "Any-"

"No."

Sherlock faltered. "I need a case," he said slowly, trying to push understanding into Lestrade's tiny brain.

"Not in this state," Lestrade said heavily.

"Even in this state I am ten times more useful than-"

"You were dead a year ago," Lestrade yelled at him suddenly, his temper cracking again. "Two years ago you were still discredited. You are not trusted, Sherlock. You cannot go onto a crime scene in this state, you cannot be seen by reporters like this. They will tear you to pieces-"

"Who cares?" Sherlock argued. "What else can they take-"

"John." Lestrade glared at him. "John's case can be tried again. And I swear, Sherlock, if they think you're unhinged, it will only keep them interested."

Sherlock laughed weakly, stumbling back against the wall, feeling oddly drunk. "Mycroft's been telling you fairy tales again, has he?"

"Without the press-"

Sherlock doubled over, the laughter taking over as he watched Lestrade grow more and more pale.

"You need to go home," Lestrade breathed, looking stunned. "I'll call your brother."

Sherlock sank down to the floor, still laughing. "He's not coming back."

* * *

**16th August**

Mycroft took him to the prison the next day.

It was hateful.

John sat at the desk in the visitors' room, staring at the floor.

He wanted to hold him, to touch him and breathe him in. To sink into John, pour through his skin and hide. Meld them together so they couldn't be pulled apart.

Instead, Sherlock sat down opposite him.

They talked about it briefly. Homosexual men did not fare well in prison historically, and reminding people of who John was to Sherlock was another problem that they wanted to avoid.

"I hate this," Sherlock complained, staring at the desk. "I hate them all looking-"

"No one gives a damn," John muttered without expression.

The tone was worrying, but Sherlock had no idea what to say. No idea how to make it better. No idea what to ask. What would be insensitive? What would be callous?

"I miss you," Sherlock murmured, lost.

John closed his eyes and nodded.

* * *

They had barely spoken to each other.

Sherlock sat in the dark, staring down at Ava as she lay snuggled under the covers.

It had never been like that. Even when they had fought and hadn't been speaking there had never been such a distance between him and John. It was beyond frustrating not to be able to reach out, to touch. It was as if there was an enforced, invisible barrier that Sherlock wasn't quite sure how to breach.

It wasn't fair.

His eyes burned and stung as he doubled over, pulling Ava close to try and regain some control over his emotions.

He could feel Ava wake up and hear the curious noise she made before she hugged him back, as if she were the parent.

Unsure of what to do, he just held on tighter, burying his face in her hair, breathing in the smell that was just a little bit of John, still safe and free.

"Don't cry."

Ava.

Words.

He couldn't help it; he tightened his grip and didn't let go.

* * *

They waited a few days before taking Ava to the therapist. Apparently they needed to build up her sense of security and trust within her family unit before expanding her newly regained faculty for speech to include other acquaintances. It was difficult enough for her to gather enough confidence to say something in front of Mycroft, a full day after she'd first spoken to Sherlock.

It was a relief to have something to focus on.

* * *

**19th August**

"Can you tell me why it's scary to talk?" the therapist asked.

They were sitting on the floor in the study; a room that Ava, oddly, seemed to be at ease in. It was warm and old fashioned-

No, even Sherlock in his current useless state could look around the room and know why Ava liked it.

It was on the ground floor and the complete opposite of the hotel room Moriarty had taken her to.

Ava was in his lap and curled against him, her head under his chin as she shook her head.

The therapist looked up at him, abandoning her study of Ava. Her eyes flickered down to Ava's head pointedly.

Ava wasn't going to talk to someone she didn't entirely trust yet, apparently. That would still be one step too far for the frightened six-year-old.

"Tell me," Sherlock coaxed his daughter, staring at the empty fireplace. "Just tell me."

He could feel the indecision in her, the hesitation as Ava glanced over at the therapist.

"She doesn't matter," Sherlock said in a monotone voice. "Tell me."

Silence.

"Please," Sherlock added, his tone finally allowing some emotion to bleed through and crack his voice.

Ava wriggled a little closer so that her mouth was almost to his ear. "Will you still like me?" she asked in a tiny voice, sounding worryingly serious.

"Always," Sherlock replied, trying to brace himself and not wonder what it was she might say as he stroked her back soothingly.

He tortured himself with wondering it most nights anyway.

"I did something bad," she told him in that same tiny voice. "I might get taken away-"

"No." God no. Not her too.

He'd never allow it.

"They took Daddy away."

All he could do was tighten his grip and shake his head. Helplessly, he looked at the therapist, who was watching them both intently.

"No one is taking you away," he promised her. "No one." He struggled to get back under control. "I'd run with you to Antarctica before that happened."

She rested her head on his shoulder thoughtfully. "Promise."

Sherlock nodded.

"Give her time," the therapist mouthed when there was a long silence from Ava.

He had time.

* * *

"There were two men," Ava said quietly, clutching onto his shirt. "The…Jim…" Her breath hitched a little in fear at the mere mention of Moriarty's name. "One of the men said that Jim made him sick."

Sherlock rested his cheek on her hair, trying not to react in any way.

"I didn't mean to," Ava suddenly sobbed. "I didn't mean it-"

"Didn't mean what?"

"You get medicine when you're sick," Ava cried. Sherlock pulled back a little and tried to see her face but she seemed to want to bury it in his shoulder. "I didn't mean to hurt them-"

"Ava-"

"I told him to give them medicine." Ava was shaking now. "And then they stopped moving and they stared at me for hours-"

Sherlock pulled her as tight against him as he could. "It wasn't your fault," he whispered fiercely. "Do you understand me? It was never your fault. It was him."

"But I told him to-"

Sherlock shook his head and rocked her as she sobbed.

* * *

Somehow, some way, Mycroft got him a private room with John in the prison, on the condition that Sherlock be searched before he went in.

Dully, he submitted to it before stepping inside. The room was bare but for a plastic table and two chairs, bolted to the floor.

He would go mad in a place like this.

It seemed to take both an age and an absurdly quick amount of time for John to enter.

When he did, John paused at the door, clearly worried about the unusual nature of what was going on.

"What?" John asked, swallowing. "What is it?"

He should be sitting down.

Sherlock herded John over to the chairs, sitting John down and wishing that he could bring the chairs closer together. In the end, he kneeled on the floor, facing John.

"Ava," Sherlock said slowly, "she talked to the psychologist."

John stiffened, completely alert now. His dark eyes searching Sherlock's fearfully.

"About…" Sherlock felt his lip curl into a snarl. "Moriarty."

If the man were still alive…

"And?" John breathed, barely moving.

"He…" Sherlock struggled with the words. "He killed the men in front of her."

John's jaw tightened. "We suspected that," he said, his voice not quite steady.

"He…Fletcher, he told Moriarty that he made him sick." Sherlock's hand squeezed John's so tightly he half expected to hear a crack. "Ava…said he needed medicine."

"Oh Jesus, no." John pulled his hand out of Sherlock's grip and covered his mouth with both hands, staring at the ceiling.

"And…Moriarty made her watch and told her she'd picked-"

John slid his hands up, covering his eyes, as if that would keep the image away.

"He left her in the room with the bodies for hours." Hours that could have been avoided had Sherlock been quicker, better, smarter.

John let out a strangled sob.

"She's terrified of…what will happen if she speaks or-"

John put his hands together as if in prayer and rested his thumbs against his lips. Laughter, thick and heavy and toxic bubbled out of him and Sherlock could only watch.

Helpless.

Useless.

"How…" John spat as he stood violently and paced. "How can anyone in their right mind put me in here for killing him? I should have ripped him apart piece by piece."

They should have.

Together and slowly. They should have made Moriarty suffer and pay for daring to touch their child. They should have made him scream for mercy until the entirety of London heard him beg.

John let out a ragged, bitter sound. "I should be in here for making it too fucking quick!" John sneered, almost collapsing against the wall.

Sherlock nodded as he stood and reached for John.

And somehow, finally, they tangled together, clinging hard. Sherlock wrapped himself around John and breathed him in, hating the smell of different soap and washing powder.

If he had known, if all those months ago he had known…

Sherlock buried his head in John's shoulders as a damp face pressed into his hair.

If.

* * *

Sherlock ignored Mycroft's car and walked.

At some point he picked up a crowbar.

At eleven o'clock, just when the summer sun had faded, he took the damn thing to Moriarty's headstone until his hands bled and the words were beaten from the world.

It was the only thing that Moriarty had left behind that Sherlock could do something about.


	29. Chapter 28:August 31st to October 3rd

Chapter Twenty-Eight

31st August to 2nd October

Warning at the bottom of the page as it is a spoiler but angst is pretty much a given!

* * *

By the end of August, Lestrade refused to have Sherlock on a crime scene.

"You cannot do this," Sherlock yelled at him in the middle of the office. "You will solve nothing-"

Lestrade said nothing from where he sat on the chair, looking older than his years with his head in his hands.

"-nothing," Sherlock continued to roar. "I saw the back log of cases while I was away. How many people will continue to get away with their crimes, continue to kill because you have a problem with how I ask a question-"

Hands were grabbing at him, trying to calm him down. "For God's sakes," Anderson's voice hissed. "You aren't helping yourself-"

Disgusted, Sherlock wrenched out of Anderson and MaCalister's grip, all the while glaring at Lestrade. The DI had stood at some point, and looked deathly pale.

"Go home," Lestrade ordered, sounding a little unsteady.

"I will not 'go home'," Sherlock sneered. Home was John and John was gone. "Not until you change your mind-"

"You assaulted a witness," Lestrade yelled at him.

"He was lying-"

"You cannot do this," Lestrade shouted, slamming his fist down. "I have a law suit now, I have to throw out every bit of evidence you had your hands on and start again. This is the third time, Sherlock. There will not be a fourth-"

"The law is wrong," Sherlock snarled. "Arbitary and pointless. Technicalities," he scoffed. "Technicalities that lock people up while the law pays for terrorists' funerals."

"Sherlock-"

"How can you let another one get away?" Sherlock continued as the atmosphere turned to a deeply uncomfortable silence. "How can you all stand there and let them get away with it and not have let John?"

In the corner of his eye, he could see Donovan folding her arms, closing her eyes and looking away.

"We do not make the law or pass judgment," Lestrade said quietly. "It's not our job and, for the moment Sherlock, this is not yours."

Sherlock shook his head, staring at him furiously.

"Send a memo," Lestrade said to Maggie, who was standing off to the side. "Sherlock Holmes is not permitted to cross police lines. Any attempt to do so will result in a night in the cells, away from his daughter."

Sherlock stared at him.

"You are finished," Sherlock promised.

The office was silent as the grave when he turned on his heel and walked out.

* * *

**2nd September**

"Lestrade came to see me last week," John said quietly.

Sherlock stared at the wall, drumming his fingers on the table.

"Sherlock-"

"I do not want to hear it," Sherlock snapped. "Whatever you're about to preach at me, I do not want to hear it."

Across from him, John put his head in his hands for a moment, then scraped them back through his hair, tousling it. "I get that at the moment it must seem unfair-"

Sherlock snorted and shook his head.

"Please."

The tone made him snap his gaze to John, who looked so very tired.

"I still have private cases," Sherlock murmured, looking away. "It will keep me busy."

"And you can do those without the cooperation of the police?" John asked doubtfully.

No.

"Mycroft is vaguely useful," Sherlock offered.

John sighed, not buying it apparently.

* * *

**3rd September**

School.

There had been many arguments about it. About what was best for Ava and how to approach the situation. Sherlock would have been content with having a tutor come over, but John had put his foot down.

"Send her back," he had said. "Send her back to her friends and normality. God knows she has little enough of that at the moment."

Mycroft had talked at length with the head and the teacher for this year before they had agreed that, as a one-off, Mrs Parker would continue with the class and swap with the year two teacher.

It wasn't going to help one bit, Sherlock thought as he watched Ava in her school uniform that morning at breakfast.

She was eating better now, he thought as he watched her intently, and sleeping a little better. She was still very quiet, though, far too quiet for her normal self.

Fragile. And children hardly had the best reputation at helping someone who was struggling.

They went to the school together, she holding tightly on to his hand and staring at the people on the bus.

Sherlock took her into the classroom, a new classroom with posters and fresh paint that made Ava peer around cautiously.

"Hello, Ava," Mrs Parker said, walking over.

Ava pressed close to Sherlock's leg. Silent.

There was a flash of sorrow on Mrs Parker's face as she knelt down, then sat on the floor by Ava. "Did you read any good books this summer, Ava?"

Big blue eyes turned to look up at Sherlock, pleadingly.

"Some," Sherlock answered for her. "Not many though."

"I read a lovely book," Mrs Parker said. "Can I show it to you?"

A nod.

They had agreed to go in early, before the other pupils arrived, and see how Ava reacted to being at the school again. There had been some concern that Ava might panic, remembering the last time she had gone in early, but so far there seemed to be nothing.

Though she did have a death grip on his hand.

"Here," Mrs Parker said, picking the book up and shuffling a little to let Ava see. "A Pony for Polly," she said. "Shall we read it all together before the others get here?"

A little nod, then a questioning look shot up at Sherlock. Restraining the urge to sigh at how meek she had become, Sherlock sat and settled her on his lap so she could hear the story.

When they had finished and the other students started to arrive, Sherlock slipped away as Ava smiled at her friends and took a seat at reception.

His daughter managed forty minutes.

* * *

Mycroft seemed to be led by example and started reading with Ava at night. Stories about brave princesses and dashing princes. Fairies and magic that could fix things.

"You'll fill her head with nonsense," Sherlock muttered when Mycroft finished one night.

"I'm filling her head with hope," Mycroft replied gently. "Or would you prefer her to be as doggedly pessimistic as you?"

* * *

Slowly, they worked their way up to Ava staying for a whole morning. It seemed being around her peers managed to do what Sherlock had failed in so far.

She started to laugh again.

* * *

**22nd September**

Ava managed a whole day at school and laughed in the playground, looking a little more like her normal self.

Sherlock watched from a window.

"You could probably start to go home," Mrs Parker said gently. "Or at least pop to the library around the corner."

There was somewhere else he could go.

* * *

**23****rd**** September**

After dropping Ava off at school, Sherlock hovered and waited for half an hour. Usually Ava would show signs early in the day if she were going to have a wobble, but so far she showed no signs of doing so.

So he went to the flat.

Since the day Ava had been taken, Sherlock hadn't trusted himself to speak a word to Mrs Hudson. Mycroft had mentioned her a few times and then stopped raising the topic when Sherlock threw him a filthy look.

It was strange to be back.

Mrs Hudson was out. He'd timed it to ensure she would be as he still had no wish to deal with what she had done. It gave him time to pause at the top of the stairs, key in the lock, gathering up the courage to go in.

It was tidy.

Mycroft's people had been in. Sherlock knew that they had collected clothes for him and Ava, books, toys, etc.

John's chair was empty.

Running a hand over it, Sherlock reached out for Ava's medal, stroking a thumb over it and then dancing his hands across the mantelpiece.

When he looked up and caught himself in the mirror, there was a gaunt face staring back at him, humourless and angry.

John would not approve.

Turning away from the image and the thought, Sherlock looked around the living room, hating that it had been tidied and looking like it was waiting for something. He would have liked to pick through their last days together, seen for himself traces of John and Ava and him, collected together, living together.

The kitchen was eerily quiet; no kettle boiling or experiments bubbling. Sherlock passed through it, then braced himself before opening the door to their room.

Tidied.

Cleaned.

It was foolishly stupid, but he marched in, yanking open a drawer to find John's clothes, and brought them to his nose, wanting to smell-

Fabric conditioner.

Someone had washed everything.

Infuriated, Sherlock slammed the drawer shut and yanked open the wardrobe, trying again and again.

Nothing.

They could be anyone's clothes, anyone's jumpers.

On the bedside table, on John's side, there was a book.

Bookmarked.

Walking over, Sherlock traced his fingers along it and then picked it up.

A book that had been well read and used. John had been struggling to concentrate then. Unsurprising, given what had been going on. The book was commonly now categorised as a children's book, full of myth and fantasy, of trying to do the right thing. John had wanted to believe that good would triumph, that there would be a reward after all they had endured.

Sherlock closed his eyes and kept the book in his hands, attempting to steel himself before he opened his eyes and turned, searching for something else.

Nothing.

Upstairs, Ava's room was just as silent. The walls were still purple and, as much as Sherlock stared at them, the words that he knew the pair had scrawled underneath when they had been painting did not show up.

_Sherlock, Daddy and Ava._

_I believe in SH._

Wiped away, covered.

Gone.

The bathroom held nothing. Cleaned and scrubbed, it was a vacuum of information.

Oddly numbed, Sherlock walked back into the living area. He stood there uncertainly, turning in an aimless circle, before his eyes fixed on the kitchen floorboards.

They'd tried, really tried, he thought as he stepped towards the stain, to get the blood out. John's blood. But there were still darker streaks in the grain, a pattern that could be seen, even if just barely.

A book and a stain.

Sherlock slid down the wall and sat there, fingers stroking the ruined wood as tears started to fall.

"They're taking you away," he whispered. "I don't know how to stop them from taking you away."

* * *

That night he glared at Mycroft when the man went to read a story with Ava.

"Would you like us to read what Daddy was reading?" Sherlock asked her.

Ava's eyes lit up with enthusiasm and she nodded. "Could I talk about it with him?" she asked as Sherlock settled down on the bed with her.

He nodded. "I think he'd like that."

When John finally bowed and allowed Ava to visit. He seemed to detest the idea of Ava being anywhere near a prison.

Six years was a long time if John didn't bow to it.

"It's huge," Ava whispered when Sherlock lifted the book up.

"We'll manage."

"Maybe…" Ava looked at him hopefully. "Maybe by the time we finish it, Daddy will be home."

He doubted it. But, unsure of how to say that, Sherlock simply opened the book and began.

"_In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was __a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort..."_

* * *

**26****th**** September**

"What is this?" Mrs Hudson asked, looking blankly at the cheque.

"Rent," Sherlock said, folding his arms.

"This is far too much-"

"Without the discount," Sherlock added stonily. "I do not want it."

Mrs Hudson looked up, pale.

"You are my landlady," Sherlock continued. "Nothing more, nothing less. You have no need to come upstairs unless I have a broken appliance. You do not answer the buzzer for me, you do not cook or tidy."

"Sherlock-"

"And you go nowhere near my daughter."

She closed her eyes and shook her head. "I am so sorry," she said, pressing her lips together. "I've gone over it so many times in my head-"

"I do not care," Sherlock spat.

Shocked, she looked up at him.

"It will not happen again," Sherlock added. "Foolish, really, to expect our landlady to care or show some common sense."

She couldn't have looked more hurt if he had slapped her.

"Good day," he added, turning away.

"Why come back?" she asked sounding close to tears.

"It's John's home," he said, without looking at her. "Nothing will make me leave it."

* * *

Boredom seeped in.

No cases, no calls. Ava was adjusting. No John.

He started snapping at everyone. Not that he saw many people these days.

He could feel it building in his head, like a parasite that needed to be fed or killed.

So bored. So monotonous. So nothing. Nothing but Ava.

And when Ava was at school he hunted down a drug dealer and jammed the needle into his veins.

He was sober by the end of school, and the slightly worried look Ava had started to wear around him fell away.

Mycroft's did not.

* * *

"What if something had happened to her?" Mycroft said quietly that evening.

"She has you as well as me," Sherlock said, feeling lifeless.

"I am not her father."

"Nor am I," Sherlock pointed out dully.

A piece of paper was slapped on the table in front of him.

"Ava would beg to differ," Mycroft said, his hand lingering on the ripped piece of paper that still had Moriarty's scrawl over Ava's clumsy letters spelling out Sherlock's name on her synonyms page.

_Oops, how could I resist?_

"She is yours," Mycroft snapped at him. "And yours to protect. Stop this foolishness, Sherlock."

* * *

**28****th**** September**

"I am taking Ava back to Baker Street," Sherlock announced.

Mycroft was silent for the longest time. "Will the drugs be following you there too?"

"No."

He wouldn't do that, not around Ava, not when she might see or he might be incapacitated when she needed her.

As if reading all of that, Mycroft closed his eyes and shook his head. "She is six years old, Sherlock. She has been through more than anyone could imagine at her age-"

"I will not use them, not when it is just me and her," Sherlock said, staring at the wall. "You know that. I will not risk her in that way."

Mycroft said nothing.

* * *

**2****nd**** October**

John knew.

It was scrawled all over the silence that lay between them as John stared at him, as if trying to deduce Sherlock using his methods.

They sat in silence for almost twenty minutes as Sherlock waited. Waited as John stared at him with bright and tired eyes.

"I trust you," John said, so quietly that Sherlock almost missed the words.

"You shouldn't," Sherlock replied.

John laughed. A vicious, twisted laugh as he looked up to the ceiling.

"What choice do I have?" he asked bitterly shaking his head. "All I can do is believe that you won't. That if you move back and have her on your own, you will never put her at risk like that."

"I wouldn't," Sherlock whispered.

John nodded and looked down, his eyes even brighter. "I am trusting you," he whispered, his tone almost pleading.

Sherlock nodded quickly. "We're reading your book," he said with a smile to John.

"What book?" John asked, looking a little lost.

"The Hobbit."

John blinked, looking baffled. "I haven't read that since I was at school."

Sherlock felt something plummet. "What were you reading then? Before…before?"

John shook his head. "I wasn't."

* * *

"Get away from me," Sherlock spat at Mycroft. "You planted it there, didn't you? You knew I'd see it, you knew-"

"Sherlock-"

"You knew I'd be looking-"

"I didn't tell them to clean everything," Mycroft exploded at him. "They…" He closed his eyes and seemed to try and centre himself. "They took initiative," he added scornfully. "I went there a week before you did and.." He shook his head. "They left you with nothing to see."

Sherlock laughed. It exploded out until he was weak at the knees and leaning against the car. "Nothing but a blood stain," he chuckled, suddenly tickled by it all. "What can you deduce about that?" he asked, utterly amused.

Mycroft looked afraid.

* * *

Within the week he and Ava were back at Baker Street.

"You need Wellies," Sherlock muttered as the rain fell down the window in tiny rivers that cracked his view of the world outside.

"Purple ones," she told him seriously.

"Mm," he agreed. "We'll walk down to the shops tomorrow."

* * *

_**Warning for drug use.**_

Obviously the Hobbit's opening line was used here. I don't own that one bit! :P


	30. Chapter 29: October 23rd to 26th

**October 23rd to 26th**

* * *

**October 23****rd**

He was so bored.

Nothing held his attention but Ava at the moment. He had torn through every legal journal he could get his hands on, looking for some precedent to get John out, some definition of defence that he could use.

Precedent was stupid.

After that had been experiments, then learning about every country and weighing up which would be best to flee to if he could break John out. Then he had attempted to learn how to cook after despairing of waiting for a takeaway and quickly hated the slight calming sensation it brought him.

All in two weeks.

Next topic to explore?

Learning another language was promising and he'd started a list of which to learn next before becoming bored with it. He'd already walked around, remapping the new shops and road works.

Dull!

All he could focus on was the continuous tapping of his finger on the table. A comforting beat that wouldn't end as long as he stayed at the table and did not leave, walk down the stairs and hunt down the dealer that had been lurking by Tottenham Court Tube Station.

He'd managed it. Since talking to John he hadn't touched it again but he had come damn close.

Today would be a difficult one.

* * *

The call came at twenty past one.

"Mr Holmes?" Elaine, the receptionist at Ava's school asked.

Bored and dissolving a plug in acid, Sherlock froze.

Panicked.

"What happened?" he asked, standing instantly at her frantic tone.

"Ava's missing-"

He was already reaching for his coat. "What happened?" he demanded. "Who-"

The phone crackled as it was passed over. "I had cover in for my PPA time," Mrs Parker said, sounding worried. "We have it every two weeks but we had someone new to the class in. I didn't…of course to Ava it would look like a stranger-"

"Why didn't-" Sherlock broke off as he slammed the front door closed and hailed a taxi. "You think she's run away."

"Yes. She was scared, there's a hedge down the back of the school field. She's probably gone through that."

"Ten minutes," Sherlock barked at her and immediately phoned Mycroft.

* * *

The police had been called and were searching.

Useless.

Useless. Everyone was useless. What if she met someone out there? What if someone took her, hurt her, made her cry? What if she slipped and fell? What if she were already hurt? What if they never found her? What if-

He needed to think.

He walked out as Mycroft called after him.

He came back ten minutes later, able to think.

* * *

Afraid. Ava had been afraid that it was happening again. Ava knew London, knew enough to get very lost or get home safely.

Why hadn't she tried to go home?

He stared at the hedge she had gone through and then bent, forcing his way through too.

Left, he decided, looking at the street. Right looked too open and she would have thought she was being chased.

They'd gone over it with the map, looked through the CCTV tapes, but Ava was too small to be easily caught on camera. The angles weren't always right.

Within ten seconds it became blindingly clear where Ava had gone, Sherlock thought as he stared at an old poster for Prison Break that was hanging off a disused bus stop.

* * *

He found her, sitting in the tiny park, by a statue, right next to the prison. Relief clawed through him and made him stunned at just how numb he had been for the past hour.

He almost had to struggle to remain upright.

Wordlessly, he made his way over and gripped her, clutching her close before pulling back to study his daughter.

She was freezing as she stared up with tired eyes.

Stripping off his coat to wrap it around her, he sat down, rocking them both, completely unable to form words. Instead he held her tight and close, tears stinging his eyes as he started to shake.

If he had lost her…

He was going to be sick.

Lifting her away, coat and all, he turned and staggered a few paces before dry heaving, fingers clutching at the statue for support until they were scraped raw.

Turning, he slid down the statue, not caring about anything as Ava, with huge eyes, dashed forward and pressed into him as tight as she could.

"What were you thinking?" he gasped, staring at the sky. "What on earth were you thinking?"

"I didn't want them to take me away," she sobbed into his neck, clutching at him. "Then you might get taken away and-" The rest of her words dissolved into tears.

"I want Daddy," she cried. "I want you and Daddy."

Sherlock buried his face in her hair and looked across at the prison.

_John._

_Please._

But for an hour they sat in the park alone.

* * *

Mycroft found them.

Detective Mayers stood by while a paramedic checked Ava over, and in the distance, Mycroft argued with someone.

He held Ava's hand as the world blurred around him.

Nothing mattered but holding her hand.

"-Shock?" someone was saying.

"-He's high."

The world faded away after that.

* * *

**October 24th**

"What's going on?" he mumbled to Mycroft, who was sitting next to him with his head in his hands.

"You promised," Mycroft said, staring at the carpet. "You promised me and you promised John."

"I had to find her." Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear it. "Where…" He blinked, looking around at the bed he used at Mycroft's. "Where is she?"

Mycroft bowed his head.

* * *

No legal claim.

List of cautions.

History of drug use.

Confirmed drug use on October 23rd.

Psychologist's notes on Sherlock Holmes.

Character references used in the past for Sherlock Holmes.

Suspect in the unsolved murder of three people, including Sebastian Moran.

Incident report from the 31st of August when Sherlock Holmes struck a witness and was removed from the offices of Scotland Yard.

Inspection of Sherlock Holmes' residence during search for dependent showed chemicals in the flat that neighbours said were used for regular experiments.

Looking at the list against him, Sherlock felt nothing.

"I have sped up the process," Mycroft said. "We have a meeting today to discuss this. We have a lawyer and the case worker has been changed. I am sure if I suggest joint custody between us, on the condition that you return to live with me, we may be able to-"

Sherlock let the words drift past him as he stared at the printed page levelled against him.

"They had no right," he said dully, "to take my daughter."

Silence.

"You were incoherent," Mycroft said. "And high. They had every right to take her last night."

The lawyer looked at them nervously. "We can get half of these dismissed or explained," she said, tapping at the list. "The rest we will have to show some intent to improve-"

Sherlock glanced at the list again and shook his head.

* * *

There was no point going to the meeting.

None.

So he jammed a needle in his arm and tried to forget everything.

* * *

**25****th**** October **

"_I cannot-"_

…

"_John-"_

…

"_He's high."_

_Mycroft. Tired. Sad._

"_I will not bring him in while he's in this state- John? Hello?"_

_Mycroft. Scared._

* * *

Sherlock was almost disappointed when he woke up.

_John._

_Ava._

_Gone_.

He turned to stare at the wall.

The bed dipped a while later and a hand stroked through his hair.

"It was never an advantage," Sherlock murmured, still staring at the wall.

"It was happiness," Mycroft said gently.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"John wants to see you," Mycroft said slowly. "He deserves…he deserves some explanation Sherlock. He is trapped in there-"

Sherlock shifted, trying to find a cool spot on the pillow.

"Go and see him," Mycroft coaxed. "Tell him what happened, explain everything. He'll be angry, Sherlock, but…you are in a difficult situation. Talk to him. The pair of you will find a way."

"Not in the visitors' room," Sherlock said slowly.

He hated the visitors' room.

"No." The hand in his hair kept moving. "I'll take care of it."

* * *

**26****th**** October**

John was livid. Livid enough that he scared even the guard out of the room with only a few words, then hauled Sherlock up and decked him.

Pain exploded in Sherlock's cheek and head, on top of the shudders still wracking his body from the after-effects of the drugs that had coursed merrily through his system. He could barely follow as John heaved him up again and slammed him against the wall, dimly grateful that he had something to keep him upright.

"I've killed for you, twice," John hissed, incandescent with rage. "I gave you my daughter and I gave you my trust that you would keep our home safe. I asked you to be you so that I had something to keep me sane," John shouted at him. Sherlock couldn't do anything but stare blankly at the floor. "Stop sulking and say something," John said, shaking him.

The words snapped him out of it a little. "Sulking?" Sherlock breathed. "Sulking?" he roared. "I'm barely making it through the day! I can't breathe, I can't sleep. I can't think." He shook as he thought of Ava in the park alone, scared while he'd stood uselessly by at the school. "I have nothing left to do, they have taken everything I am, everything I have. I am nothing."

John pulled back in every possible way. The rage slipped off his face, and suddenly the expression that Sherlock had only vaguely glimpsed the last time they'd seen each other was startlingly, painfully clear.

He looked lost, and weary and so utterly and completely…

…alone.

And in front of Sherlock's eyes John Watson just seemed to collapse. The stoic shoulders, sad smile and dark humour crumbled away until Sherlock could see what John had been so desperate to hide.

"This should have been my argument the very first time you asked me why I didn't want this relationship," John said brokenly as he stumbled back, "because we would never be good enough for you to come first."

No words could have hurt him more, and nothing could have been worse than the startlingly clear truth that John wasn't saying them to hurt or strike that tremendous blow.

He was saying it because…

"Tell me you don't believe that," Sherlock whispered, unable to remember a time in his life when he'd ever been so desperate to be wrong. "How can you even think-"

John shrugged uselessly, still backing away. "Because I can't…I can't…I'm not strong enough for all of us," he said, every word a bullet to Sherlock's chest. "And you won't even try," John added as his back hit the opposite wall, shaking his head as if to clear Sherlock from it.

There were a thousand words that Sherlock wanted to say, words that John could usually hear without them being said. But John wasn't listening, wasn't seeing; as if he was curling up and closing up in a final defence against Sherlock, the way he'd refused to despite what everyone around them had always said.

He couldn't think, he didn't know what to do. John had always been the one holding out a hand to him, waiting until Sherlock unfurled and took it. He felt strangely adrift, suddenly having nothing to reach out for, nothing to aim towards to ground and anchor him to life. And he was terrified of pulling at John to find those ties, afraid of making it worse or not even knowing where to start.

But John would relent, any second now his brave, strong, wonderful man with that unending heart would steel himself, wrap himself back together and weave a life line, find a way to make it better.

"I love you-" John said, sliding down the wall. Sherlock found he was able to take a breath.

"-But I've got nothing left, Sherlock. I've got nothing left to give you," John said. Sherlock couldn't even process how his voice sounded or what he was looking at or anything else.

"I'm done," John said.

It took an age for Sherlock to work out John wasn't going to say anything more. That no buts or ifs or conditions or even ultimatums were going to be issued.

Nothing more was coming from John.

Terrified, he stared at John, who kept his eyes fixed blankly on the opposite wall.

He'd never felt more alone.

"I tried," he whispered.

John closed his eyes. "Good for you," he said tonelessly.

* * *

Mycroft was out in the hall when Sherlock stumbled blindly past, his presence a mere flicker on Sherlock's radar.

"That was-" Mycroft trailed off. "Sherlock?" He sounded panicked.

Sherlock couldn't stop.

He had no idea where he went or what he did. The world was a dazed blur and nothing quite seemed to add up or work or be as it should be.

_Home._

He needed to go home.

* * *

_"I'm done."_

Sherlock stared at the flat.

A little girl lived in it. Her shoes were on the floor, a picture she'd drawn was messily pinned to the all with blue tack, some reading books were on the shelf.

Had lived here, he corrected the thought. Had.

Her breakfast bowl was still waiting to be washed up. He'd have to clean it and wipe her away from the flat the way Mycroft's people had wiped John away.

_I've got nothing left._

He'd done it.

Months ago, Ava had smashed the skull because he had made John cry.

The man in the mirror had made John sink down to the floor, beyond tears. That man in the mirror had lost their daughter, had let her be hurt, had brought evil into their lives.

Had let himself be drowned by boredom and anger.

"I hate you," he whispered to the image. "I hate you," he screamed and smashed his fist into it.

The glass cracked and his hand bled.

Cracked.

Shattered.

He picked up a bowl and smashed it against the mirror. This time glass rained down like tears and crashed to the floor.

Not enough.

He turned and picked up the poker from the fireplace.

A figure stood in the dead screen of the TV, alone.

He smashed the poker into it, trying to break the image, kill it or destroy it.

The same with the glass dividers between the lounge and the kitchen. They didn't hold up to either the laptop or the poker.

It was almost systematic as he walked around the flat and shattered everything that dared show his reflection. The one place he didn't touch, didn't go near, was Ava's room.

That had to be kept safe. It was safe away from him; as long as he was kept apart from it the world would think it safe and happy.

He sat, almost calm, as he took the drug from his pumped it in.

The moment he did it he wanted to laugh past the ringing in his ears.

Weak.

This had cost him his family.

No. Moriarty had. The work had. The thrill had.

The boredom had. It was the reason he had delighted in Moriarty at first, one of the reasons John had been reluctant to start anything. The reason John hadn't married him and let him have a claim on Ava.

"_This is__ your greatest love,"_ John's voice taunted. _"I'm not fighting a losing battle with your love of puzzles."_

"No," Sherlock whispered. "No, no, no-"

The impotent feeling grew, scalding until it turned to anger and sheer frustration. Filled with rage, he shoved at the desk, watching as the papers spilled everywhere and the table fell with an almighty crash.

He tore the flat to pieces with his bare hands. Destroying every piece of evidence that told him a man lived here who loved puzzles and games. Destroyed every deduction he could make about himself.

It wasn't enough.

And later, as he drank the whiskey Mrs Hudson had brought over last Christmas, he slowly turned his head to the alcohol they had in the cupboard.

Burn the heart out of you.

Moriarty had managed that. But Sherlock could burn away what was left.

* * *

He stopped at the top of the bottom flight, staring down without seeing it.

Mycroft had suggested Mrs Hudson leave. He'd heard the conversation three days ago, back when everything had seemed the worst it could get, when Ava had been taken.

It always got worse.

And now, now he had nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing to lose and nothing that was within his reach to fight for.

How had he lived like this? How had he survived before John? How had he managed for five years? How had he smiled before Ava, how had he felt anything before John?

How had he managed to destroy it all?

He tipped the bottle, watching as the amber liquid splashed out, adding to the reek that was already coming from the stairs.

Then dropped the object in his other hand.

In the end he sat in his chair, pumping more of the drug into his system that made everything float away. The memory of the day that John had come home from the hospital all those months ago drifted into his head.

If he could go back…if he could change it. Save them both from this hell of his own making…

There were no magical fixes, no white knights riding to the rescue or eagles swooping in to carry him off to safety. He'd used them all up. Like Moriarty before him, he was the villain of the piece.

And the villains were never saved or forgiven.

But he could pretend, just for a moment, as the haze thickened and clouded his mind, that he was back with them both, at a time when the two people he loved more than anything in this miserable world had smiled at him and loved him back without limit.

_"I hate you."_

The fire on the landing cackled and burned.

* * *

Though thou exalt thy selfe as the eagle, and though thou set thy nest among the starres, thence will I bring thee downe, saith the Lord.


	31. Chapter 30: Epilogue - 27th October

**Epilogue**

**27th October**

* * *

It was raining.

Mycroft Holmes stood at the door, waiting for the bell to be answered as he held his umbrella to shelter him from the storm.

Fitting, he supposed, after the night he'd had.

The man who opened the door was tall, a little plump around the face and instantly suspicious.

"I know you from somewhere?" Christopher said with a frown.

"Is your fiancée in?" Mycroft asked.

"Yeah, she's in the kitchen…" Chris looked out at the weather. "Come in," he offered, standing to one side and gesturing to the stairs.

Their newly bought flat was sufficient, Mycroft thought, looking around once he climbed the flight. A spare room that he imagined the pair would one day use as a nursery, a soft-looking living room, cosy and inviting with a table and chairs, a tiny balcony beyond. To the side, the kitchen was walled off but had a hatch.

Molly Hooper was humming to her scrambled eggs.

Soothing, Mycroft thought with a nod.

"Mycroft," Molly said with a startled sound as she took the pan off the hob. "I…was I meant to expect you?" she asked, vanishing from the hatch to appear at the kitchen door seconds later.

"Holmes' brother?" Chris asked, sounding a little less friendly, the expression on his face dropping further when Molly nodded.

"I have a request to make of you both," Mycroft said. He nodded at the sofa.

"After the last time-"

"Chris," Molly hushed, tugging at his hand. "Let him speak," she added, sitting down and staring up at her husband-to-be imploringly.

Relenting, the man sat, clearly unhappy.

"I heard about Ava," Molly said with a worried look. "If you need a character reference or anything then-"

"I fear I need far more than that," Mycroft said, looking out the window to watch the torrential rain. "My brother attempted to burn himself alive in his flat last night."

Molly made a horrified noise, quickly soothed by Christopher. "Is he-"

"Alive?" Mycroft nodded. "Thanks to Inspector Lestrade and myself. We managed to call for help and pull him out but…"

_Sherlock lying on the road, Lestrade's horrified face._

_Burning._

"Does John know?"

"About Ava? Yes. About this?" Mycroft stared at the Thames, trying not to remember the last conversation he and John had conducted.

"_What do you want me to do?" Mycroft asked._

_John shook his head. "I have no-"_

"_About Ava?" Mycroft interjected. "I have no delusions, John, if Sherlock is using again then the only thing that will stop him is him. But Sherlock has made it clear he wishes to return to 221b." Mycroft took a deep breath. "Do I let him take her with him?"_

_John stared at him in sheer horror, looking far older than his years. "How can you be asking me this?" he breathed, shaking his head, eyes bright._

"_Only you can make this decision. She is your daughter-"_

"_I can't…" John shook his head, looking ill. "I can't, you're asking me to choose between them – to put one before the other-"_

_Mycroft swallowed heavily. "My…my instinct is that he won't. That, in this, his reluctance to leave Ava with Mrs Hudson will work to our advantage and he won't risk doing something that will place her in danger."_

_John nodded slowly._

"_But he is not stable, John. And she is traumatised as it is."_

_John closed his eyes._

"_On the other hand, if I take her away from him, if I keep her with me, I do not know what he will do. Without her…I fear for his mental state."_

_It took an age before John opened his eyes, looking utterly wrecked. "He won't do anything. And if he thinks he has done anything he'll be the first person to bring her here to me," he said, sounding shaken to the core._

_Sounding as if he had just used everything up to come to the decision._

"No," Mycroft said, staring out. "I did not think it wise to tell John about this. Not yet."

He'd underestimated just how much the decision had wrecked the good doctor, and Sherlock had paid the price.

He should never have placed that decision on John's shoulders.

"My brother asked for your help years ago, Miss Hooper, and I find myself in the same position now." Mycroft turned to the pair. "You are a registered foster carer, are you not?" he asked of Chris.

The man nodded. "Yeah, my nephew…" He trailed off as it dawned on him why Mycroft was asking. Next to him, Molly blinked.

"I cannot promise you that Sherlock will come back for her," Mycroft said slowly. "But right now, I need to look after my brother and I cannot look after both." He hesitated and steeled himself. "I am throwing myself upon your mercy, Molly Hooper. Will you look after Sherlock and John's daughter?"

Molly looked at Chris.

For the longest time, neither said a word.

Then Chris sighed and stood.

"Of course."

* * *

Author's Note

Can I say a huge thank you to swissmiss for improving this fic massively and giving me the confidence to try new things/kick my bum when I took huge big gaps between updates. She's been really fab and it has been hugely appreciated.

The sequel to this will be called 'Crush it 'till the petals fall'. It will link up to Paved With Love's Epilogue and should be posted end of May, early June. In the meantime, I will be going through the whole verse with my betas to edit for spag and story, especially RoS to tidy it up. When each chapter is done, I'll add a proper chapter title to it rather than the dates so it should be easy to track where we are up to.

Thank you to everyone who has read this and encouraged this verse. It's the first one I wrote for this fandom and without all the lovely feedback I wouldn't be writing(spamming) you all with the other fics and improving the way I am.


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